


Anchors

by TriDom



Series: Anchors [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambigiously inflicted self harm, Angst, Depression, Endgame Stiles/Chris/Peter, For once those tags aren't for peter, Infidelity, M/M, Marital Issues, Mates, Mental Instability, OT3, Police Officer Stiles, Power Dynamics, Power Struggle, Psychosis, Stetopher - Freeform, Werewolf Peter, consent issues (not sexual consent), hunter Chris, strong possibility of xenophilia/beastiality, whatever you want to call someone screwing around with a werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 115,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3650856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom/pseuds/TriDom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles falls in love with a married man twice his age. He doesn’t have daddy issues. He doesn’t have a kink, but it still happens. Little does he know he’s about to step into a failing marriage between a hunter and a werewolf, becoming just as entrenched in their shit as they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know. I have two other WIPs I need to do some work on. Don't worry, those will get updated. Unfortunately, Stetopher has consumed my life for the moment. But, if you're following my other stories, I will have new chapters out for them soon. 
> 
> Fair warning guys, going to be angsty as shit, but it will have a happy ending.

Stiles fell in love with a married man twice his age. He didn’t have daddy issues. He didn’t have a kink, but it still happened.

The first time he met him, he was sitting outside of his dad’s office, picking at the buttons of his own uniform. The cotton was still stiff and smelled of cellophane from the wrapper it came in. 

He looked up when Derek Hale started talking in the nearly empty bullpen in front of him. The guy was tall with dark hair and carrying a black case. They said a few mumbled things, then the guy patted Derek's shoulder and walked back towards Stiles. He nodded to him then sat a chair down from him. 

“Is he in a meeting?” he asked. 

Stiles looked up from staring at the dark ring on the man’s ring finger. “Yeah.”

The man looked at Stiles’s chest, where his name was stitched in the tan fabric. “You’re the sheriff’s son.”

“The one and only." 

“Do you know how long he’ll be?”

“No telling. Someone just went in ranting. A robbery and a bakery, I don’t really know. There was flour involved.”

Raised voices came from inside the office then his dad’s, calmer, more reasonable.

The man held out his hand towards Stiles. “Chris Argent.”

“Stiles,” he said, shaking his hand. “You’re the contractor?”

“I am, so my business is with you,” Chris said. “We could step out to the gun range.”

“Sounds good.”

“After you,” Chris said.

Stiles walked down the hallway, rolling the cuff of his shirt up then pushing it down and up again before they reached the door to the gun range at the back of the building. Chris laid his case on the long table by the door and flipped the latches.

Stiles whistled low.

“Nice.”

“This is the Glock 22,” Chris said, taking out the first of three handguns and ejecting the clip, racking the slide, and handing it to him.

Stiles tested the unloaded weight of it, pointing at the targets down range.

“Have you used a Glock before?”

“Yeah. We used 19’s in training,” Stiles said.

“I would've brought one, but your dad didn’t want you to carry anything less than a .40.”

“I know. He’s an old man.”

The metallic snick of ammunition being loaded into a clip mixed with an awkward silence that made Stiles shift. He watched Chris’s large thumb press down the gold tipped casings, down and back, down and back, smooth and quick. Then he held it out to Stiles, who smacked it in, then grabbed the eyewear and ear protection.

At the police academy Stiles went to, there was an instructor who hated him, because he was a sheriff's or because he was mouthy, Stiles didn't know, but he made his life hell from day one. The gun range had been the worst of it. He would get beneath Stiles skin until he was so nervous and angry he was shaking. Standing by an arms dealer that was this comfortable with his weapons was almost as intimidating. Stiles took a deep breath through his nose. Then he felt a nudge on the inside of his right foot.

Stiles adjusted his feet, feeling the awkward stance. He pointed his toe towards the target and shook his head.

“Rookie mistake,” he said loudly around the cushioning over his ears, without looking away from the human-shaped target.

“You’re fine,” he heard muffled.

Recoil went down his arms as he pulled the trigger. It was like the shot took his nerves with it down range. He’d been doing it since he was ten at this range with his dad at his shoulder.

He readjusted and squeezed the trigger again in quick succession until it was empty and the sharp smell of gunpowder was hazy in the harsh lighting. He pulled off his ear protection as Chris hit the return and the wires whirled above the range, bringing the target towards them.

“Good job,” Chris said, taking the paper from the clip.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, looking at the tight grouping in the chest area.

“How do you like it?”

“It’s nice. It recoils more than the 19.”

Then Chris took out an ACP .45 and they did the same.

Last, Chris took out the one that Stiles had been looking forward to, the smooth simple black lines of the Beretta 96.

“I think we have a winner,” Chris said, laughing slightly.

“I love these. My dad used to carry one.”

“They're great guns. I used to carry one too.”

Chris let him put three clips through it before Stiles took off his ear protection, feeling the stupid smile on his face.

“Yeah, this one.”

“It's a good choice,” Chris said, standing near his shoulder.

Stiles pulled off the plastic glasses and almost bumped into Chris before handing the gun back to him. They were almost the same height. It caught him off guard. Maybe it was the gray in his beard, he seemed taller, broader.

 “Thanks for letting me waste your ammo.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Chris said.

His dad still wasn’t there, so he leaned back against one of the stalls when Chris leaned against the tables.

“You don’t have to wait around.”

“I’d rather get the paperwork done today,” Chris said. “You don’t have to keep me company.”

“I’m the new guy. You’re just keeping me from having to fetch coffee and donuts.”

Chris laughed quietly. “You’re a cop now, you can’t make donut jokes.”

“I don't think I can turn it off." 

Chris laughed quietly as he folded the lips closed on his ammo boxes. When he smiled his eyes crinkled slightly. Stiles stared for a second then shook himself. 

They talked about guns, about their favorite manufactures. Stiles tried not to sound out of his depth. He liked guns, he was a good shot, but the way Chris talked about them was beyond his level entirely.

“When I get settled, I want to get an H&K45,” Stiles said.

“Have you fired one?”

“I wish. There's a gun show in the spring at a firing range. I'm hoping I can test one there." 

Chris stood up straight and reached beneath his jacket. He held out a large semi-automatic by its barrel.

“It's the tactical, but they're generally the same," Chris said, "It's loaded. Be my guest." 

Stiles took the pistol and tried not to smile like an idiot. He probably shouldn’t get such a kick out of holding the gun he had wanted for at least six years, sue him. The trigger weight and pull were smooth. It felt so good in his hands. He was smiling again as he handed it back.

“That's amazing.”

“Thank you. It was an anniversary present.”

“She’s a keeper.”

“He. My husband,” Chris said as he loaded another clip.

“Does he have a brother?" 

Chris laughed, looking down at the gun as he finished loading it and put it beneath his jacket as the sheriff came in the door.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Chris,” John said.

“The crazies can’t be helped,” Stiles said.

“Those _crazies_ are part of your protect and serve oath,” John said, but he looked tired. “Which one did you pick?”

Stiles showed him. They filled out and signed some paperwork and Chris handed the Beretta over.

“It’ll take good care of you,” Chris said.  

His eyes were weird, so light, blue, green. Stiles was mortified when he felt the heat flush up his cheeks, up into his ears from nothing. .

“Thanks,” he said.   

“Give Peter my best,” John said.

“I will. It was nice to meet you, Stiles.”

“Same,” Stiles said. 

“Give me a call when you want that HK. I’ll give you a deal.”

“Yep, I will,” he said.

Stiles watched him walk out then turned to his dad. "Could've warned me the dude was a wet dream. Little heads up would've been nice." 

John laughed, a short bark noise. "I can't say I've notice." 

"You'd have to be blind and dead." 

"Blind  _and_ dead," John said, with a hand on the back of his neck pushing him towards the door, back to the office. "I'm glad you're first day has been so exciting." 

"I think there's a wet spot in my underwear." 

"I knew I was going to regret hiring you," John said under his breath as they walked back into the offices. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The week after, Stiles walked into the coffee shop before work with Scott. They were there while the sun was just a red band between the buildings. Everyone was shitty and tired, including him, but Scott was all smiles and happiness, talking about some gag worthy shit he and Kira had done the night before. It was too sweet, too early.

Stiles was only half listening as he looked out to the still quiet street then back to the register when he heard a deep sleep-tired voice.

“Coffee, black.”

Chris Argent stood at the counter with his back to him. 

“I’m sorry our card machine is broken,” the barista said. “Do you have cash?”

Chris stared at her before snapping his wallet closed.

“I don’t carry cash,” Chris said.

Stiles stepped forward and touched his shoulder.

“Hey, let me get it,” he said.

Chris looked back and his lips turned down. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“Come on, it’s like $1.50,” Stiles said. Then he gave the barista his order and paid.

“Thanks,” Chris said as they moved out of line and he leaned against a table, wiping at the corners of his eyes.

“Not a morning person, huh?”

“How could you tell?” Chris said.

“I think you almost gave the poor girl a heart attack.”

“They should put up a sign.”

“Then I wouldn’t have been able to save the day,” Stiles said.

Chris huffed a laugh, looking down passed his crossed arms.

“Where are you having to go this early?” Stiles asked. 

 “I have a meeting in Duncan at eight.”

“That sucks.”

 “Chris, Stiles,” the barista called from the counter.

They picked up their coffees and Chris raised his slightly to Stiles.

“Thanks,” Chris said.

“Just doing my duty, citizen,” Stiles said.

Chris laughed slightly. “Have a good day, Stiles.”

“You too. Good luck with your meeting, if it's that kind of meeting.”

"It's always that kind of meeting," Chris said, smiling again as he pushed open the door, the bells tinging with a gush of cold air. 

Stiles watched him go, looking down the firm lines of his body, his ass, long legs.

“Who was that dude?” Scott asked. 

“The guy who contracts our guns at the station.”

“Do you like him?”

“No,” Stiles said, going to the counter and pouring sugars and creamer into his coffee.

“It kind of looked like you did.”

“Yeah, he’s hot, but he’s married, so no.”

Stiles watched the steady stream of sugar go into his coffee hardly making a dent in the darkness.

He ignored the way his heart had beat faster, like when he used to see Lydia Martin in the hallway. The rough tired way Chris had sounded had shocked him.  Not nearly as put together as the man he met at the gun range last week. He snapped the lid on his coffee, pushing away the thoughts and going out the door with Scott.

 

Less than a week later, Stiles walked into the diner at the end of his first full late shift.

He had been partnered with Derek Hale all day. The guy said all of ten words to Stiles the entire day and most of that was to bitch when Stiles needed him to pull over every few hours so he could piss and stretch his legs so he didn’t vibrate apart from being still so long.

He thought about going to the bar a few blocks away, but it was late, he was in uniform, and he didn’t want to be stared at.

Instead, he walked to the counter at the diner and felt his frown slip. Chris sat on one of the stools, nursing a cup of coffee, looking down at his phone.

“If we keep running into each other I’m going to think you’re following me,” Stiles said.

Chris looked up and smiled. “That would be something since you keep running into me.”

“Maybe, but they have really good pie,” Stiles said. “Can I sit?”

“Help yourself.”

Stiles took a stool beside Chris, the red leather creaking as the waitress came up and he placed his order. When she walked away, she left the faint smell of Bengay and Big Red.

“Have you tried their cheesecake?” Chris asked.

“No.”

“You should.”

“Done. After a shift with the world’s biggest douchebag, I’ll get some and go into a calorie coma,” Stiles said.

“Who is it?” Chris asked.

“Hale. Fucker gets off on being a prick,” Stiles said, then shook his head. “Sorry.”

 “Is he going to be your full-time partner?”

“I hope not. We’d kill each other.”

“He’s a handful on a good day, let alone the bad ones.”

“You know him?”

“I’m his uncle.”

Stiles laughed, dropping his face into his hand, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye. “Shit,” he said dragged out. “I’m sorry. I even saw you talking to him. I'm a dumb ass.”

Chris laughed quietly. “That I’m related to him?”

“Well yeah. That seems like it deserves an apology,” he said. “No, really, sorry for talking crap about your family.”

“He’s an acquired taste.”

“So he’s a sister’s son?”

“No, my husband’s nephew.”

“Peter. Peter Hale is your husband?”

“Yes,” Chris said, the corner of his mouth turning up like he didn’t understand why that was such a revelation. “Have you met him?”

“No, I’ve just heard about him. He works in the stock market right?”

“Mhm.”

“He must be a smart guy.”

“He is,” Chris said. “Are you liking being a cop so far?”

“I’ve done more donut runs than traffic stops, so it’s kinda boring and if I keep doing it I’m going to get fat.”

Chris smiled. The florescent lights came down against his eyes, catching the fine wrinkles around them. They were the coolest shade of blue green.

“Did you always want to be a cop?”

“Kind of, off and on. Then when I went to school I didn’t really think of anything else I’d like to do, so I went into training with my best friend,” Stiles said, then shrugged. “Tell me about your job. That’s seems like the dream, you get to be around awesome stuff and be your own boss.”

“It’s good. I do testing for a few companies on the side for their prototypes, too,” Chris said.

“So you get to test new guns and get paid for it?”

“Mhm," he said, drinking from his coffee. 

“How do I get your job?”

Chris smiled, but any answer he might have given was cut off as the waitress came back with Stiles’s plate of eggs and ham then refilled Chris’s coffee.

“Have you always done the whole gun thing?” Stiles asked.

“No. I was in the Marines when I graduated high school. I served a few years then helped my father with the family business when I got out.”

“Did you travel much in the Marines?”

While Stiles ate and Chris drank another cup of coffee, Stiles asked him questions, some about the Marines, some about his job, and other just random ones, like about the music he listened to. He only knew Chris’s bands vaguely, Stone Temple Pilots and Nirvana. Chris asked him the same questions and he tried to make himself not sound twenty years younger. He kept meaning to tell Chris that he didn’t have to sit around with him, since Chris’s plate had been pushed to the side since he got there, but any time he went to bring it up, another question popped out of his mouth or Chris asked him one. So they ended up with pieces of plain cheesecake and Chris talking about a recipe of his mom’s.

“It is good. It doesn't sound like it, but it is,” Chris laughed slightly. 

“It sounds really sketchy,” Stiles said. “Chocolate chip cheesecake under a layer of pecan pie?”

“It probably started as a botched recipe, but it’s great.”

“Do you like to cook?”

Chris nodded. “I do all the cooking. I don’t trust Peter near the kitchen.”

“Poor guy, I’m sure he isn’t that bad.”

“I’ve lost more pans to him forgetting that he was boiling water than I can count.”

“Who hasn’t done that, once… four times?”

Chris laughed, taking a drink of his third cup of coffee since Stiles sat down. After Stiles finished his last bite, he checked the time on his phone and frowned. He tried to hide it, but Chris glanced up.

“Do you need to go?”

“Probably. I have the morning shift.”

Chris shook down the sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“Me either,” Stiles said. He still sat there for a few more moments before pulling out his wallet. The waitress came over and took both their cards. “Thanks for chilling. It was great to talk to someone normal.”

“I’m sorry being with my nephew is just so hard on you,” Chris smiled, just barely showing his teeth. There was a light in his eyes though, the one Stiles noticed a few times as they spoke. The one that preceded some remark that showed just a glimpse of a sharp, sarcastic humor. He wanted to see it more. His heart fluttered again and he shoved it down. 

“You called him an acquired taste, not me. Bad uncle,” Stiles said.

Chris laughed quietly as their receipts were brought and Stiles passed the one pen to him after he finished with it. When they walked outside, Stiles lingered by his Jeep as Chris buttoned his jacket. It was only October, but it was chilly with the heavy wet air.

“Thanks for hanging out.”

“I had a good time,” Chris said.

Stiles nodded, rolling his lips between his teeth. If the guy wasn’t married, he would-. The guy was married, so it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that he was handsome and that this was the best time he’d had hanging out with someone aside from his dad or Scott in a long time, maybe years. He made himself nod again and give a little awkward wave as he stepped off the sidewalk to go to his driver’s side door.

“Have a good night, Stiles,” Chris said.

“Yeah, you too,” Stiles said, feeling his face burning up to the tips of his ears as he sat in the seat and cranked the motor. He drove off before it had a chance to warm.

 

 

The next day, he watched out of the cruiser’s passenger window as Parrish drove down streets in the down time after school started and before lunch. All the soccer moms were back home from dropping off their crotch-fruit and everyone else that had been out was already at work leaving the streets empty in the muggy morning heat.

Stiles popped the plastic edge of his coffee lid with his teeth and Parrish turned up the talk show on the radio.

For the time he’d lost count of since last night, he was thinking about Chris again. Last night Chris told him about being in boot camp in Coronado. He smiled, looking out the window when he thought of the way he’d talked about his drill instructor and Stiles told him about the police sergeant that trained him and Scott.

When the radio buzzed, Stiles took the handheld and talked to dispatch, slipping out of thinking.

At the end of his shift, he thought of going to the diner, talked himself into it then out. He ended up just heating up a pizza and laying on his couch, watching a rerun of a Mets game.

The next day, he had off. He did his usual run, then turned into a slug around the house, occasionally pitching a random piece of clothing into the washer until it was full enough to run, only to find he didn’t have detergent, so he had to go to the store. By the time he got back from that shit storm, he didn’t feel like cooking anything he had bought after he shoved it all into the fridge in any crevice he could find.

That’s how he ended up at the diner again, his sweet tooth aching again.

They had a boxing match on the thick-backed TV behind the counter and some old guys down the bar were talking about it. So he sat and tore his straw wrapper into little pieces while he watched and listened to the murmur around him.

His food was good and greasy when it came. The fight was good too and he found himself groaning around a mouthful of fries with the guys farther down when someone landed a good blow.

“Hey.”

Stiles looked up at Chris and nearly choked on his fries, forcing himself to swallow and making his eyes water.

“What’s up?” he asked with a little cough, taking a drink of his Coke.

“I was going to grab dinner. Can I join you?”

“Knock yourself out,” Stiles said.

He sounded so overeager, but Chris with his small not there smile didn’t seem to mind.

“What round are they on?” Chris asked, looking at the TV.

“Second,” Stiles said.

“Chris, what can I get you, honey?” the same waitress from the other night asked.

Chris gave her his order and leaned on the counter, watching the fight with a dip between his eyes for a few minutes. When Stiles realized he was watching him, he watched the TV intently too. He smelled good under the layer bacon grease and butter in the air, like cedar and something faintly sweet.

“Did you work today?” Chris asked.

“Nope, day off,” Stiles said, eating another fry, then pushed the plate towards Chris. “I wanted cheesecake.”

“It’s addictive,” Chris said, as he took a fry without looking away from the fight. “Thanks.”

“Yep.”

Stiles stopped eating until Chris got his food. They didn’t talk all that much, besides a grunted word here and there around bread and beef as they watched the TV. When Stiles finished, he leaned back to let his food settle and watched the sports casters talk before the next rounds.

Neither of them made a move to leave and Chris talked more when his mouth wasn’t full. When a new fighter came on, he told Stiles about them, their stats and old matches they had been in. It was the same way he talked about guns, entirely beyond Stiles, but he liked the way his eyes narrowed when he watched the fighters move, like he was judging everything they did.

“Did you ever do kickboxing?”

“I taught Aikido and Krav Maga for a few years.”

“I don't know what that is.”

“Kind of like this, self defense, but not for sport.”

“Oh.”

It shouldn’t make his stomach tingle, but it did. 

They ate more cheesecake. The waitress’s name was Grace. She talked to them for a few minutes during a break in the fight and told them how she made different flavors. It seemed more for Stiles’s benefit than Chris’s, who just nodded, like he already knew.

By the time they walked out to their cars, the street was empty with the beep of Chris’ unlocking his Tahoe echoing back from the bricks.

“They do that Tuesdays and Thursday,” Chris said.

“Do what?” Stiles asked.

“Put on sports.”

“Cool. Scott doesn’t usually shut up long enough for me to watch,” Stiles said.

Chris nodded then gave another of his small not quite there smiles. “Goodnight.”

“Yeah, have a good one,” Stiles said, walking to his Jeep and trying not to vibrate under his skin.

It was a stupid question. Stupid, but it rattled in his skull as he started the vibrating V6 and listened to it shake the Jeep’s cold sheet metal. Could a dude just be friends with another dude if they both liked guys? That was stupid. It was the same bullshit of could a guy be friends with a girl, sure they could. But could they if one of them found the other ridiculously attractive? 

Not like it mattered, because he knew where he would be next Tuesday after his shift without question. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ahead on posting on my Tumblr if you want to read more chapters over there, [TriDom](http://tridom.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I maybe posting Chapter 3 this evening. It kind of depends on this schedule I'm trying to work out. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is coming up, guys. Next chapter. In two he starts having a bigger role.

The next Tuesday after Stiles got off work, he walked into the diner and Chris was already there, watching a rerun of a ’10 Mets game. Stiles already knew they won, but he bitched with Chris about different calls and bad plays.

“That’s why the Sox will always be better,” Chris said, when the third Mets runner was tagged out.

“Hooo, no. No no, you did not just say that,” Stiles said.

“Don’t tell me you’re a Mets fanboy,” Chris said. “At least pick a team that wins.”

“Hey, two world series, buddy.”

“Mm the Red Sox have eight.”

“Yeah, well I’m not a fair weather fan.”

Having this argument usually got him so excited that he had to roll off facts and he did, a little bit, but he fucked up some of the pitchers’ names he’d known since he was seven. Chris’s eyes were perfect when they were lit up with him teasing. The little wrinkles around them were sexy, even when he knew they were from Chris laughing at him. He didn’t even care. When Stiles finished his list of random facts, the corner of Chris’s mouth turned up more.

“It’s almost cute how stubborn you are.”

“Almost, psh, I’m adorable and they are awesome.”

Chris just said he was cute. Almost cute. He was joking and the butterflies were still jumped up on PCP, fluttering in his stomach.

In the seventh inning, Stiles ordered a slice of strawberry cheesecake.

“You aren’t going to get one?” Stiles asked.

Chris shook his head, taking another drink of his coffee. “No I had enough last week.”

But he looked at it, so Stiles pushed it closer.

“Come on,” Stiles said. 

“I’m fine.”  

“Okay, but there’s no way I’m going to eat it all. It’s just going to sit there and get all stale, then go in the trash and be lonely. All that loving home cooked sweetness rotting with the garbage. So sad.”

Chris smiled without looking at him. “You’re a strange person.”

“I’ve decided to go with endearing.”

Someone’s smile hadn’t made him so twitchy since Lydia. His dad always gave him crap for how quickly he got wrapped up in his crushes. Liz Hall in 4th grade. Danny in 9th grade. Lydia through the rest of high school.

“ _They’re just called crushes, son. That doesn’t mean you have to let them steamroll you_ ,” his dad said sophomore year when Jackson and Lydia started going out and he ate three rolls of Sweetarts a day on the couch after school, watching reruns of Top Chef for two weeks.

He pushed his dad’s words away five minutes later when Chris took a bite of the slice Stiles had left between them.

“You’re going to give me diabetes.”

“Nah,” Stiles said, taking another bite of the creaminess. “Just chubby.”

When they left the diner that night, they stood on the sidewalk, talking for a while longer with their breath leaving in vapors. Stiles didn’t even care that it was cold enough to shiver. When he finally took a step back, because he felt like he should, he thought he saw disappointment, but he could be wrong, it wouldn’t be the first time he was.

“I’ll let you get home. I’m sure Peter’s missing you,” he said.

“He’s asleep by now.”

He had thought in the back of his mind that Peter was off working somewhere or something, that he was busy these nights and they couldn’t spend them together. But it didn’t sound like that. It sounded like Chris wanted to be here… would rather be here.

“But you need to go to bed,” Chris said. “I’ll see you Thursday?”

“Yeah, yeah for sure,” Stiles said, not able to help his smile.

It felt like intangibly crossing a line, but he pushed that away. They were planning to meet up. That was perfectly fine. That’s what friends did. But the feeling in his gut wasn’t friendly. He didn’t think the way Chris was looking at him was either.

“Sleep well,” Chris said with another small, eye crinkling smile.

“You too.”

He could feel Chris’s heat as they walked between his Tahoe’s front bumper and the back of Stiles’s Jeep. When they walked to their doors, Stiles looked back, then turned back when Chris unlocked his door and probably caught him checking out his ass. He saw the corner of Chris’s mouth turn up. It made his face burn as he rolled his lips between his teeth to stop his own cheesy ass smile. He could still see it in the reflection of his window.

So that’s just kind of what they did. They met up twice a week and talked shit about each other’s teams and if neither people or teams on were theirs, then they just picked opposite to talk crap. Stiles was addicted to that look in Chris’s eyes when he was fucking with him, his sharp humor.

They talked too, about small things, occasionally slipping into feelings. Stiles's mom dying. Getting an apology from Chris that warmed his chest when usually it just made him uncomfortable. He learned about Chris’s being an asshole and that he didn’t talk to his family anymore. Stiles squeezed his shoulder and they went back to sports after a few quiet moments.

Funny high school moments. Chris nearly getting caught crawling out of his boyfriend’s window, falling through the canopy above their porch. Stiles laughed until his eyes watered at the thought of the guy that sat beside him who was usually so quiet having to run half-naked across their yard.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” Chris said, but he laughed too.

He didn’t think it was funny, he thought it was hilarious. He thought Chris was.

Every piece out of his mouth was better. The fact that he still collected baseball cards. That he had a cat when he was a boy that he loved before it was caught in the belt of his dad’s truck. He never got another, but Stiles thought it looked like he might want one. When he asked if he would, Chris told him his husband was allergic.

They didn’t talk about Peter much. Never really. Stiles couldn’t bring him up and Chris rarely did himself.

When they were eating off the same piece of pie, on the third week, not noticing or caring that the forks got mixed up, he could pretend that Chris’s husband didn’t exist.

***

One night, Stiles sat in bed, scrolling through Facebook. When he reached the end of his feed, seeing Danny and Ethan’s honeymoon pictures, and Lydia’s token selfie, he hovered above the search bar like he had done the last few times he got on.

Earlier, he hung out with Chris at the diner again. His smile was glued behind his eyelids. Stiles smiled thinking about the joke he made about the Patriots that made Chris really laugh.

Finally, he typed in Peter Hale. There were a few results, but he knew the top one was him. His face somehow matched the way Chris talked about him.

He clicked on his profile and his stomach dropped.

The guy was a knock-out. He was wearing sunglasses in the picture on a boat, shirtless, and showing off a body no guy his age had a right to have.

It was probably creepy that he was stalking Chris’s husband’s profile, but he couldn’t help himself. Peter went to Stanford. He had been married since ’91. They had literally been married longer than he’d been alive. His stomach just fell lower and lower when he opened Peter’s photo gallery. He didn’t have many, but most of them were of him and Chris. It was one in another country that made him freeze and his chest feel empty.

The way Chris was looking at him was almost religious. Peter was looking at the camera as he took the selfie of them, but Chris was looking at him in a café or someplace quaint like that. It was posted in 2012.

Stiles closed down his laptop and laid down in the dark. He had almost forgotten what that felt like. The empty sinking, like when he watched Lydia and Jackson kissing all through junior year, even after Lydia became his friend and he thought maybe, just maybe he would have a shot.

He wanted to stop thinking about it, but he turned and slept in fits until his alarm blared him awake.

***

Two weeks later, Stiles sat at his dad’s house, watching a football game. The smell of garlic and tomato from a frozen lasagna floated in from the kitchen while he nursed his second beer. He loved Fridays when he got to chill with his dad at his dad’s like when he was in school, but for the last few weeks, Fridays kind of made him pissy. The day right after Thursday, but so long before the next Tuesday.

“We should do a self-defense class at the station or something,” Stiles said, thumbing at the label of his beer.

“We usually go to Summerset for those.”

“That’s just basic stuff. I thought maybe we could do a weekend thing with someone, like maybe Chris Argent.”

“Chris?”

“Yeah. We’ve been running into each other at the diner sometimes. He told me he used to teach a few different kinds of martial arts. He offered to teach a class.”

John looked back to the TV and Stiles watched him from the corner of his eye, trying to act like he wasn’t.

“Sure. I’ll call him and see if we can’t set something up.”

“Awesome.”

“So you’ve been hanging out with him?”

“Yeah. Sometimes we watch a game or whatever.”

“That's good. He’s a good guy.”

Stiles gave a small smile to his dad’s own genuine one, the one that he gave when he was tipsy and feeling all of his fatherly gooeyness towards Stiles for some reason or another. It felt like shit with guilt that was becoming more and more rare brewing in this stomach. His dad said it like it was good that he had a friend, a perfectly platonic friend.

And they were. Chris was the picture of the perfect husband. Stiles would think he was totally straight if not for the few times he mentioned Peter and the handful of times he thought he had caught him checking him out when he would stand up from his stool to go to the bathroom. The warm cushy feeling came back to his chest as he thought of the night before, when he caught Chris doing it. Chris just looked away with a completely straight face and acted like he didn’t have anything to be sorry for.

It was times like that that still made it so easy to forget that there was a gorgeous guy waiting in a house somewhere for Chris. It just left Stiles with, if Chris loved him so much, why was he at the diner with him two nights a week until the place closed?

It just made him think, if Chris was his husband, he wouldn’t give him up so often, so easily.

***

They pulled the class together two weekends later. At first, Stiles felt bad about Chris giving up one of his weekends, but it was Chris who volunteered so that’s how he ended up at the station at ten ‘til eight on a Saturday with Scott and Parrish in the basement where they had a dusty matted area.  

Most everyone was already there, drinking scorched coffee and eating donuts. It was exactly eight when Chris came down the stairs, wearing a pair of black pants and a black shirt with Argent Armory written on the front. He had a kind of tired and pissed off look in his eyes, like he sometimes got at the diner late at night when the games or fights were almost over. It made Stiles's fingers tingle, like the guy just needed to be touched, to be dragged back into a bed and cuddled for a few more hours. 

Chris nodded to him with his little frown still in place as he came over and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“You look like you want to kill someone,” Stiles said with his own cup at his lips.

Chris mumbled something as he walked away to talk to John.

Stiles leaned back against a stack of mats and watched him go, chewing on the lip of his cup. Parrish snorted quietly beside him.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“Nothing,” Parrish said, but the corner of his mouth was still turned up.

“Fuck off,” Stiles said without heat.

It wasn’t like Jordan hadn’t had to listen to him talk about Chris when they were on patrol. Thank God his dad had put him with Parrish, because otherwise he would be gushing to Scott and if Scott actually caught on to why he was talking about Chris so much, he would die of indignation. Stiles had already had to hear enough from him in high school about how Lydia was with Jackson and he should respect that.

Before the class got started, Chris had them stretch in pairs. Stiles put his feet against Scott’s in a triangle and they took turns stretching towards each other while his dad and Parrish did the same nearby. Derek got paired with Greenberg and Stiles hardly contained his laughter when Greenberg accidentally caught him in the crotch.

That got the first smile of the morning out of Chris as he looked at Stiles and shook his head.

When they finally got to the demonstration part, they crowded around the edge of the mats and Chris called Derek out to the center with him, giving him a fake gun.

Chris was talking, but Stiles only heard the murmured gravel of his voice as he grabbed the wooden gun, moving quickly and Derek was thumping against the wall. It was so smooth. 

“You have a little drool, right there,” Parrish said, nudging beside his mouth.  

Stiles pushed him away.

Chris was showing them again when Stiles turned back, in slow motion, ducking his head beneath the fake barrel Derek pointed at his head as he knocked the gun upwards and grabbed his wrist, moving it in a way that looked painful.

“Get in your pairs and try it,” Chris said.

Scott pointed a practice gun at Stiles first. Stiles ducked like he saw Chris do, then his mind went blank. He put both hands on the gun as he pulled it back to take it from Scott’s hand.

“Not like that,” Chris said, as he came up to their mat and held out his hand to Scott.

Scott gave him the gun and Chris held it out to Stiles.

“Aim it,” Chris said.

Stiles held it to Chris’s forehead a few inches above his own. His eyes were so pretty. And then it was out of his hand and his wrist hurt.

“Did you feel what I did?” Chris asked. “Scott, did you see?”

“Yeah I did,” Scott said.

“Stiles?”

“Show me one more time?”

Stiles pointed the gun at him again. Chris moved in slow motion.

“First, you duck. That’s the most important part, get clear of the range, because when you grab the gun, it will go off,” Chris said, as he knocked Stiles’s hand up, and he could feel how his finger would naturally squeeze the trigger. “As you knock it up and duck, you grab their wrist, one hand on the wrist and one on the gun, not both on the gun. Their wrist is weak. If you just grab the gun, he can pull back,” Chris said, “See?”

Stiles pulled back with both of Chris’s hands on the gun and it came easily. Then they did it again and Chris grabbed his wrist in his hands that were like heating pads. His thumb and forefinger dug into the grooves of his arm, squeezing those tendons until they ached as he shoved the gun up.

“When you do that, you’re taking away their control. Then you take the weapon and break their wrist, like this,” Chris said, pushing Stiles’s wrist back a fraction more until the gun slipped free of his slack grip.

“Understand?” Chris asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said.

“Try it again with Scott.”  

Both of them did it twice before Chris moved on. Chris didn’t spend as long with the rest of the pairs. Maybe it was because the others didn’t suck as bad, but that isn’t what the flutters in Stiles’s stomach told him.

They went through a few more maneuvers with gun and knife situations. Then they went to hand-to-hand things. Derek was Chris’s ragdoll for the examples and Stiles had to admit that Derek knew what he was doing. He went with Chris’s glancing blows and rolled up and onto his feet each time Chris put him down. If he hadn’t felt the hardness of Chris’s hands, he wouldn’t have thought Chris was hurting Derek at all.

Stiles almost choked on his tongue when they were standing around the mat again, waiting for Chris to show them another take down when Chris called his name.

“Come be my volunteer.”

“That’s okay, I think Derek makes a good punching bag.”

“I need someone inexperienced,” Chris said.

Stiles felt his gut tingling like it was wrapped in electric feeling as he stepped on the mat. He had been fighting a boner off and on all morning. Since they had gotten into the afternoon it had gotten better, but now Chris was actually going to be touching him again and that was not going to help. Not to mention, Derek might make it look like slamming into the mat didn’t hurt, but Stiles didn’t believe that, at all.

“I’m going to lay down and I want you to come towards me. Normally. If you come too fast you’re only going to fall faster,” Chris said.

Then his insides turned to liquid as Chris dropped down on his back and spread his legs. There was a god and he clearly hated Stiles. Or loved him immensely.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Chris said.  

Stiles rolled his lips between his teeth, took a step and stopped.

“You’re not going to hurt me.”

“Yeah, not what I’m worried about,” Stiles said.

Chris smiled, showing his perfect white teeth against his gray-black stubble.

“Come on. I’m not going to hurt you. Too bad.”

Stiles finally just went towards him. He was between his thighs and had time to wonder when Chris was going to move when he was on his face with his arm cranked behind his back and Chris’s knee in his spine.

“Motherfucker,” he said as his breath was knocked from him.

He heard laughter, then Chris telling them what he had done. He wasn’t putting any pressure on Stiles, but holding him there. His hand didn’t even hurt, the one on his wrist or the other on the back of his neck. It just felt warm and rough and so fucking right.

Then Chris was letting him up.

“One more time, Stiles,” Chris said.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Chris laid back down and Stiles went toward him again, this time much slower, making his co-workers laugh at him, but he didn’t see them volunteering.

“When he comes within reach of my legs, I hook one around,” Chris said, and Stiles felt him do it, almost losing his balance right there. “Then I sweep it out from under him. As he comes down,” Chris said, then he was coming down, but it was slower with Chris’s hand someone on him, slowing him. “I let him fall to the side.” His face was against the nearly suffocating smell of rubber with the mat gritting into his cheek, mixing with the almost not there sweetness of Chris’s cologne. “I grab his arm and twist it around until I could break it and use my other hand to press his neck to the ground or take out my weapon.”

That hand on the back of his neck was too good. He turned his face away from his co-workers and bit his lower lip, closing his eyes. Chris was talking like he was in the most comfortable position in the world. He was convinced people were just asking questions to keep Chris holding him down. Then he heard Parrish and his dad ask something and knew he was right. Chris’s fingers rubbed into the sides of his neck and he went boneless.

Then he was pulling him up like he weighed nothing.

“Thanks,” Chris said.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, knowing his face was splotched with red and hoping everyone else wrote it off as embarrassment and getting his ass kicked as he turned his back on everyone and readjusted his half-hard on.

He didn’t hold out the same hope when he saw the glint in Chris’s eyes like he was laughing on the inside. So Stiles licked his lower lip and dragged his teeth hardly across it. Chris glanced down at his mouth and something crossed his eyes for just a second before Stiles turned around and joined Scott again.

Most of the guys and girls who went through the training met up for dinner after at the mom and pop Italian place on the edge of town. Stiles and his dad hadn’t let up about Chris coming with them, so Stiles ended up sitting next to him at a long table. They were that table that everyone hated, loud, drinking, and joking. After a few drinks, a side of Chris that Stiles hadn’t been able to see came out as he gave out teasing insults along with the rest of them.

Every time their thighs brushed under the table, it was electric.

After, a few of them went out to the bar. Most of them chatted around a circle table, but Stiles and Chris went to play a few games of pool. When Chris was bent over, lining up his shot on the fourth game, Stiles leaned against the table right beside him. His hot breath tasted like Coors when he burped quietly. He watched the tip of Chris’s que hovering against the green felt while his head spun slightly.

“Don’t miss,” he said when Chris readjusted.

Chris glanced at him with his hardly there smile. “Really?”

“I’m just being supportive,” Stiles said. Then moved just as Chris started to move forward. “Don’t miss, don’t miss.”

Chris shot the stick forward. The striped seven sinking in the corner pocket.

“I’ve been doing this since before you were born,” Chris said.

“Yeah, well I’ve been doing it good longer,” Stiles said, bumping his hip against Chris’s before leaning over to line up his next shot.

“Well,” Chris said as Stiles stuck his tongue between his teeth to aim better.

“What?”

“You’ve been doing it well longer, not good longer.”

“Get outta here, grammar Nazi,” Stiles said, then tripped slightly as he tried to gain his focus on the ball at the end of his que, but all he could think about was the subtle heat of Chris’s bare arm against his. 

Chris laughed. His laugh was perfect. He wanted to shove his tongue in his mouth, get on his knees and get his cock in his throat. It would burn in the best way. Stiles shoved his que forward and scraped the table, the ball bounced and clacked against the others. 

At around one, Stiles was on his sixth beer and more drunk than he could remember being in a while. Chris had drank the same. Really he didn’t know if Chris had drank nearly as much. He lost count. He didn’t stop noticing how his lips looked wrapped around the bottleneck though, dusky pink. Sexy gray stubble. His head swam with it.

“One more game,” Stiles said.

Chris smiled, but took Stiles’s que from his loose grip. “You like losing that much?”

“When I’m losing to you.”

He was drunk enough to smile after and not look away from Chris’s curved up lips.

“Your dad’s driving you home,” Chris said, putting his arm around Stiles and leading him towards the doors.

Stiles leaned into his side. Just a few thin layers between them. He carefully turned in to smell the wood sweetness of him. A hum came from his throat as he dropped his temple against Chris’s shoulder.

“You always smell good.”

Something hot slid under his hoodie and t-shirt to the bare skin above his hip. Chris’s face didn’t change, but his hand squeezed.

He was almost drunk enough to tell him to come back with him, come back to his house and just fuck him until he couldn’t stand, couldn’t sit straight in his cruiser. Drag his stubble against his balls and thighs until his underwear hurt.

Instead, they walked outside where everyone was waiting, having a few more laughs. Then people were pairing off with others sober enough to drive. Chris put him in the passenger side of his dad’s off-duty car and leaned in the door. His dad was still over laughing with Parrish, Stephens, and Derek. That was Derek standing with them, looking at Stiles through the un-tinted glass.

Stiles barely pushed down the urge to flip him off. He didn’t like the way he looked, didn’t like the way he looked at people. Didn’t like that he was proof of this other dude being alive somewhere.

He dropped his head back against the seat rest and looked up at Chris, braced between the door and the pillar.

“You’re good. You’re a good guy,” Stiles said.

Chris smiled and Stiles’s heart twisted. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, but you’re still awesome. I mean, you came and taught that class. You didn’t have to do that. Got up early. You don’t even like being up early.”

“I had fun,” Chris said.

“Me too.”

Stiles squeezed his fingers into his own jeans when they itched to reach out and touch Chris’s thigh, slide up and cup his zipper, feel his dick harden under his palm. He opened his mouth to say something then the driver’s side door was opening and the car shifted as his dad sat inside.

“Thanks for bringing him out, Chris,” his dad said.

“No problem,” Chris said. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” Stiles echoed his dad.

Chris smiled at him again before he closed the door.

“You guys seem to have hit it off,” his dad said as they turned out of the lot.

Stiles pressed his cheek against the window, happy, sad. Such a good night, wanted Chris to be coming home with him. It dropped harder in his stomach. Chris’s husband was going to taste the Heineken Chris had been drinking all night, smell the sweet worn in perfectness of his cologne.

“Yeah. He’s awesome,” Stiles said, looking at the mostly dark houses flashing passed.

He didn’t see his dad frown at the back of his head before he looked back to the road. 


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, he got called into work by his dad, because Greenberg called in sick. Bullshit. Greenberg was hungover. Which was fucked up, because Stiles head felt like it was going to break into a million tiny pieces as he pulled on his uniform with the late morning sun bleeding in the blinds. He swished with Listerine after the second attempt to brush his teeth that made him paint the toilet bowl both times.

While the alcohol and mint burned away the taste of stale cat shit, Stiles flicked through his phone and opened two messages from Chris.

Chris 2:15am: _Drink a few glasses of water and take some Ibuprofen._

Chris 8:36am: _How do you feel?_

Stiles wrote back that he felt like he was dying before he finished getting around and dragged himself out of his front door into the cool morning air. His head didn’t hurt so badly when his phone vibrated again in his pocket before he even got to his Jeep.

It wasn’t that weird for them to text. They did occasionally since they swapped numbers a few weeks into this thing, but it wasn’t usually so early and it was normally saying if they would be late or if Stiles sent something random. It wasn’t usually just bullshitting.

As he sat in the bullpen behind his desk, he kept expecting each text to be the last, but they kept coming. They might be a minute to thirty minutes apart, but they came. Luckily, it was Sunday and fairly slow so he and Parrish caught up on some paperwork and chilled, only going on a few calls.

“Do you plan on doing any work today or are you going to stay on your phone?”

Stiles glanced up to his dad, standing beside his desk. Passed him, Stiles saw Parrish click off Solitaire and pull up a time log.

“I’ve done my paperwork,” Stiles said.

“Then go patrol. Do something,” John said, walking passed him.

When he was out of the room, Parrish looked at him and raised his brow. Stiles shrugged and grabbed his light jacket before following Parrish from the station. The sun made his head throb, but it was bearable in the car, leaning back in the passenger seat.

“Did you do something to piss your dad off?” Parrish asked.

“Who knows?”  

His phone vibrated in his hand and he forgot about his dad. He had mentioned the new Marvel movie coming out and Chris had texted back.

Chris 1:20pm: _We could go see it._

_Are you even into that kind of thing?_

Chris 1:22pm: _It sounds interesting._

_Interesting? Lol old man._

“Man, you’re screwed,” Parrish said as he turned at a stoplight.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“You know what.”

Stiles looked back down at his phone when it went off again.

Chris 1:25pm: _Unless you wanted to go with your friends._

_Nah. Going with you sounds like more fun. I could probably actually hear what was happening._

It took conscious effort to stop smiling. He was going to watch a movie with Chris Saturday. They were going to go eat and so far Chris hadn’t mentioned anything about Peter coming, although at this point, Stiles didn’t really expect him too. A burning ball of hope flared in his chest and he couldn’t bring himself to try and stomp it out.

***

At the end of his shift, Stiles was in the locker room, changing from his uniform into his civvies, when the door came open. He didn’t bother looking up as he buttoned his flannel over his t-shirt and rolled up his sleeves.

“You need to stop seeing Chris.”

Stiles glanced up, frowning at Derek’s deep voice.

“What?”

“He’s married.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Stiles said.

“Then why are you still seeing him?”

“We just hang out,” Stiles said. “Not that I see why it’s any of your business.”

Derek’s eyebrows pulled closer, almost creating a uni-brow. He needed to ask his dad about Derek’s background check, because the guy looked like a lunatic, which was all fine when they were doing a drug bust or something where the intimidation factor worked in their favor, but right now, it was a little uncomfortable.

“Peter’s possessive, Stiles. He doesn’t care about many people, but he cares about Chris,” Derek said.

“Seriously, first of all, I’m not doing anything wrong. Second, your speech is hard ass and all, but your uncle is a stockbroker.”

Derek held his gaze for a moment longer before he went towards the door.

“Fine, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The locker room door swung shut behind him. Stiles watched it sway for a few moments before he shook himself and put his work clothes into his bag, leaving through the same door.

***

Two days later, Stiles walked in to work and pulled a pink Post-It from the computer screen on his desk. He read it and re-read it like it would change what it said before he went to his dad’s office, not bothering to knock.

“I am not patrolling with Derek,” Stiles said.

His dad glanced up from a file open on his desk. “Parrish took a sick day.”

“So? I’ll go out by myself.”

“You’re too new.”

“Okay, then I’ll go with Scott.”

“The blind leading the blind, no.”

“Okay, well I’m not going with Derek. He’s been acting crazy.”

“Derek’s been fine.”

“He told me yesterday, and I quote, _stop seeing Chris_. Then followed it up with something that sounded a lot like a threat.”

“Have you thought maybe he’s right?”

“About what?”

John held him in his don’t-fuck-with-me dad stare until Stiles wanted to squirm.

“Everyone saw how you two acted the other night. You can’t blame Derek. That’s his uncle’s husband.”

“So that’s why you’ve been a dick to me the last few days?” Stiles asked angrily and more than a little hurt as a pang of guilt went into his chest. “We’re just friends. I don’t know why that’s so hard for everyone to understand.”

John looked at him a moment longer before shaking his head. “Fine. Do what you’re going to do, but don’t lie about it to my face.”

“We haven’t done anything. Not even close, so until you have a little more reason than some drunk flirting, maybe don’t treat me like shit,” he said, then walked out, closing the door harder than he meant to.

Scott looked up from his desk, nearly spilling his coffee. He gave concerned eyes, but Stiles avoided him, going to the bathroom to pull himself together. He stayed in there for a while until he went back out to his desk. When he sat down, he heard his dad’s door open.

“Work dispatch,” John said. “I’ll put Scott with Derek.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said without looking up.

John squeezed his shoulder before walking back to his office and closing the door, leaving Stiles alone in the bullpen in the still early morning hours. On his desk, his phone vibrated with the first message of the day from Chris. He let it sit there as the screen went dark and the corner in the upper right flashed. He lasted ten minutes before he picked it up and wrote back.

It was only fifteen before he started to smile again.

***

Stiles could feel the minutes peeling off his life as he stood in line at the burger joint his dad loved and waited to pick up their order. Guilt already stirred in his stomach. He shouldn’t be letting him eat this, not even every few months, but things were still rocky and he didn’t feel like sitting through a tense evening. And it wasn’t like the guy didn’t work hard. A burger every once and a while wouldn’t kill him. Stiles prayed to God it wouldn’t.

He was worrying a hangnail between his teeth, when someone said his name.

A brown-haired man came towards him as the front door fell closed again with a jingle of bells. His smile was killer, a mixture of a salesman and a playboy.

Stiles already uneasy gut dropped into his shoes.

“It is Stiles, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Do we know each other?”

No, but he already knew the man’s name. He had stalked his Facebook photos more than he was comfortable admitting.  

“No, but I’ve heard so much about you, I feel like we’re already friends,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Peter Hale. Christopher’s husband.”

That was a punch to the gut.

“Yeah, Chris talks about you all the time,” Stiles said, taking his hand.

His palm was firm and soft, his handshake tight, but not painful.

Peter was a real guy, a physical person, with blue eyes.

Who said Chris’s name like he had said it for years. Something in Stiles’s chest crinkled as he forced his smile to be more genuine.

“I’m so nice to put a name with a face,” Peter said. “Although, Christopher’s description didn’t do you justice at all.”

Stiles laughed slightly, looking away. “Yeah, well he didn’t do much for you either.”

In his shittier moments, he had convinced himself it was the lighting in those pictures, maybe Photoshop that made Peter look that good. It wasn’t though. He was better in person. In the greasy carb-soaked air they stood in, he was beautiful.

He couldn’t even be angry or jealous. This is what he deserved. He fell for someone he knew he shouldn’t, like he always did, and this is what happened to people who tried to act like the rules didn’t apply to them.

They got fucked over.

The heaviness in his gut was almost comfortable after the amount of times he had felt it.

“Stilinski,” the cashier called.

Stiles went and got his bag of food before giving Peter a little wave.

“It was good to meet you. Tell Chris I said hey.”

“Will do,” Peter said, smiling.

Stiles walked out with the burgers hot through the paper bag against his stomach. The smell of charbroiled beef, now did nothing for him. His stomach twisted like snakes, festering and growing until he was almost sure he was going to puke.

***

 The first real excitement Stiles was involved on the job was nearly two months into his employment, the Saturday he was supposed to go to the movies with Chris, and at nearly nine pm. Multiple squad cars’ headlights glared on the trees at the edge of the Hale preserve at the edge of town, throwing impossible shadows on the leaf-strewn ground. The two tracking dogs the station hired barked as their handlers got them psyched, their yaps came out in steamed air.

“Couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow? She’s not going to be any less dead in the morning,” Stiles said.

“I don’t want the scent being washed away any more,” John said. “Stay sharp.”

“You got it, Pops.”

Fifteen of them from the station spread out in a thin line at the edge of the trees. Stiles walked towards one edge with Parrish and Scott. The rain beat the leaves above them, pattering against their waterproof jackets and sliding down the edges of Stiles’s ears.

“I was at home, cozy in bed-,” Scott began.

“I’m sorry this chick getting cut in half inconvenienced you, Scotty," Stiles cut him off. 

“She could have at least tried to get cut in half in the summer,” Parrish said.

“You’re doing a crap job of being the moral compass, Parrish,” Stiles said, sweeping his flashlight over the wet leaves as the murmur of the other deputies down the line mixed with the soggy sound of their walking.

It was cold and miserable and the longer it went, the worse it got. Stiles was never graceful, but he sucked at walking through underbrush, catching his feet on limbs and thorns. He wasn’t the only one though, they sounded like circus animals breaking through the trees in the dark.

About an hour in, the tracking dogs bayed. The line stopped as one of the hounds sniffed in a circle. Standing still made the misery worse as the wet layers of his uniform stuck and cooled on his arms, so he left Parrish and Scott shivering and complaining as he wondered around the edge of the group farther into the trees. He whistled faintly beneath his breath, hardly audible in his own ears. He stopped when he saw a dark spot on a leaf. It was almost impossible to tell if it was mold, dirt, or blood. The flashlight spilled on the ground as he looked for more and wandered farther into the trees.

“Stiles?” Parrish called.

Stiles looked back the way he had come. The beams of their lights were slants of light through the trees.

“Be right there,” he called back.

Then the air was knocked from his lungs as he slammed into the ground. Something huge followed him down, dark, heavy, and wet. Searing pain ripped into his shoulder. He sucked in a breath, then screamed, reaching for his gun. His half-numb fingers closed on the hard plastic of the grip and pulled it from the holster. A hand wrapped around his wrist, shoving it to the ground by his side. The sound of the gun firing was deafening.

“Get the fuck off me!”

He heard feet as he dug the fingers of his free hand into the thick fur around the thing’s neck, shoving at it, trying to rip into it. Its breathing was loud and hot against his ear. He felt the slow lapping of a tongue against his shoulder and neck. Then its weight and smell were gone. Stiles scrambled up to sitting and his head swam. New hands were on him, his dad, Scott, Parrish.

“Stiles,” his dad, pulling back his jacket and shirt then cussing again. “What happened?”

Stiles looked down at blood blooming on his undershirt. It was pierced in almost a perfect canine imprint, if the dog was a mutant cross of mastiff and dire wolf.

“I don’t know,” he said, breathing hard. “A dog?”

“Are you okay? Did it bite anywhere else? Your gun? Did you hit it?”

“I’m alright, Dad. I’m okay,” he said, breathing in deeply to try and ease the adrenaline in his shaky veins. “No. I don’t think I got it.”

When they got him to his feet, his dad, Scott, and Parrish walked him back to where they parked their cars where a paramedic was waiting. As they walked, the numbness started to fade by the time he sat on the back of the ambulance, his entire right upper body throbbed.

“Dad, I’m okay,” he said, as the paramedic wiped alcohol over his shoulder.

“We’re calling a hunter tomorrow.”

“It’s a preserve,” Stiles said.

“Then they can trap it and move it. Something that large doesn’t need to be here,” John said.

Stiles didn’t argue when his dad was like this, jaw stiff and red-faced, so he let him rant to anyone who would listen, mostly it was Scott and Parrish. The paramedic laughed quietly when the sheriff was throwing up one of his hands then pointing at Scott’s chest, then Parrish’s, his voice rising.

His dad sent him home after he was bandaged up. That was after convincing him that, no, he did not need to drive him home. No, he didn’t need Scott or Parrish to either. No, he would not stay at his dad’s house. He could stay at his house just fine. Fine, he would go to his dad’s house. Yes, he would call when he got there. Yes, he was fine. That one he had to say a few times.

When he pulled up in the driveway of his dad’s house, he opened the car door and paused as he reached for the keys in the ignition. Bruises colored his wrist in the dome light. It almost looked like a shadow, but Stiles remembered the pressure. The nearly bone breaking force around his wrist as his gun discharged somewhere below them and the smell of gun powder mixed with wet fur.

He decided to lay off reading King for a few weeks and shoved open his car door.

Before he crawled into his old bed, he popped a few of his dad’s pain pills from a root canal. They dulled the achy throb in his shoulder and put him into a spacey sleep. When he woke up it was still dark and his eyes and mouth were dry. His dad was on the edge of the bed, looking old in the lamp light. He remembered telling him he was okay again. Then his dad’s arms around him.

“I never wanted you to be a cop.”

“Because I’d get a dog bite?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“You got shot once. Payback sucks the fat one,” he said groggily.

He hardly stayed awake long enough to lay back down. In the morning, he hardly remembered it.

***

Chris hit the end button on his phone. John Stilinski’s name flashed a handful of times before the screen went black. He slid it into his pocket and went to the basement. The padding of Peter’s feet on the treadmill echoed back from the cement walls as he went down the stairs.

“Good morning,” Peter said.

“You _bit_ him?”

Peter slapped the kill button and slid from the belt, wiping his face with his t-shirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t know why the sheriff just called me, telling me that he thinks a wolf bit his son last night, that he wants me to go set a trap on the preserve? You have no idea?”

“How do you know it wasn’t a wolf? Or another omega?”

Peter made like he would pass him, so Chris grabbed him by his shoulder and pushed him against the wall. Peter’s eyes flashed red, but he didn’t move as Chris’s fingers dug into his collarbone, his arm braced over his throat.

“You bit a twenty-three year old without his consent,” Chris said between his teeth. “What if other hunters found out? What happens when he changes and finds out it was you? Do you think he’s going to want anything to do with us?”

“You would just hate that wouldn’t you?” Peter asked.

Peter knocked Chris back enough to passed him like it took no effort at all. He dragged his t-shirt over the back of his neck and began up the stairs.

“If you killed him, Peter…” he said and heard his voice shake.

“Then you can put a round in my skull, Christopher.”

 Peter’s footsteps sounded dully on the kitchen floor above him. Chris breathed deeply through his nose, his jaw tight as he forced his heart to slow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting Chapter 6 on Tumblr tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing hurt like a dog bite. Melissa, Scott’s mom, used to have a Pomeranian that hated Stiles’s guts. It would piss on his shoes as soon he took them off by the door, once he even woke up to the little shit pissing on his sleeping bag when he slept on Scott’s floor. But the worst part was the biting. It bit him no less than fifty times from the time he was ten until the Satan spawn died.

Those were little teeth and it still left this dull achy-in-the-bone throb on his fingers. It always felt like he had contracted rabies or bird flu or something from a mutt that spent half its life licking its own ass. That was from a mouth an inch long. 

The teeth marks on his shoulder, those felt like the bone had been chipped. The ache went down his back the next day until he didn’t really want to get out of bed. When he left his dad’s house for his own, he took his Oxytocin with him. He self-medicated into hibernation for the evening and most of the next afternoon.

When he woke up again, it looked better. The punctures had red radiating outward, but they had scabbed. He went to see his doctor and the guy gave him some antibiotics and sent him on his way.

It still hurt, though, so he didn’t argue when his dad took him off the schedule for a week. But two days was his max. He started getting stir crazy, so late Wednesday morning, he went to the station, taking donuts and coffee for the break room.

Parrish and Scott stood around the table with him on their breaks.  

“How’s your shoulder?” Scott asked with powdered sugar caked on his lips.

“Alright. Dad’s going to let me back in no time,” Stiles said.

“He contracted a hunter. He’s sending him out tomorrow,” Parrish said.

“Who’s going with the guy?” Stiles asked.

“No one, I think.”

“What?” Stiles asked, then his dad walked by the break-room door on the way to his office. “Hey, Dad wait up,” he said, trying to ignore the ache jarring into his shoulder.

“What, Stiles?” his dad asked already sounding tired.

“You can’t just send one guy out to the preserve. That isn’t safe,” Stiles said, following him into his office.

“He’s a hunter. It’s his job,” John said. “What are you even doing here? I told you to take a week off.”

“Why? I’m fine. Come on, that thing was huge.”  

“The man’s a professional. Now, go home.”

“Dad-.”

“Before I fire you,” John said, coming back and pushing him out of the door.

“Ow, my shoulder,” Stiles said.

“Exactly, your shoulder. Now, go rest like I told you too.”

Then the door was closed in his face.

***

 

The next day, Stiles leaned against his Jeep at the mouth of the preserve. He didn’t know when the hunter was supposed to show, so he just showed up at eight and waited. His coffee he had nursed all morning was long gone, the cup in the passenger side floorboard, when he caught a glint in his side view mirror. A black Tahoe.

“Shit,” he said, trying to think of a reason to give whoever was patrolling out this far for why he was there.

The windows had illegal tint, no state issued tags, no lights hidden in the grille. It looked like Chris’s, but the number of black Tahoes on the road was kind of ridiculous. The driver’s side door opened as Stiles got out of his Jeep.

“Hey, I thought it might be you.”

“I was told to send you back home if you showed up,” Chris said.

“It could be our little secret.”  

“As long as we don’t get caught. Otherwise, I’m throwing you under the bus. I’d rather listen to your complaining than the sheriff’s.” Chris said, as he walked towards the back of the SUV.

The cargo doors swung open and Chris took out a large rifle from a hard case and put it over his shoulder. Then he slid a huge wire cage from the rear.

“How's your shoulder?”

“Alright. I can help you carry that,” Stiles said.

Chris nodded as he stuffed a piece of burlap inside the trap’s mouth.

Stiles leaned against the truck and watched the dip between Chris’s eyes.

“Everything alright?” Stiles asked.

“It’s fine. You can take the back, I’ll take the front,” Chris said, lifting the trap from the back and closing the Tahoe’s doors. The muscles along his arm flexed under his tan skin. 

Stiles shook himself and did what Chris said then they started walking into the preserve.

 “Did you see it well?” Chris said.

“Not really. It was dark. I couldn’t see much of anything.”

He remembered the weight of it all along his front. The pressure around his wrist. He shoved all of those thoughts out of his head in the daylight hours.

“How weird would it be for it to be a wolf? I mean, they don’t normally bite people, right?”

“No, but it could’ve been starving.”

“Yeah, no. It knocked the breath out of me.”

“It wouldn’t take much. Even underweight males are over a hundred pounds.”

“It was more than a hundred pounds. It was huge.”

Chris smiled slightly. “So we’re looking for an obese wolf?”

“In my professional opinion.”

After they had walked for roughly a quarter mile, Chris set the trap against a rocky incline. Stiles helped him cover it with burlap that Chris had stowed in the trap then they covered it with leaves and rocks. Towards the end, he sat back and watched Chris putting a leaf there, scooting a rock over, dangling a piece here or there.

When it was finished, they stood back and looked at it.

“You’re good at that,” Stiles said.

“Thanks,” Chris said, then looked at his watch. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his face, sticking in the hardly there stubble. It caught the sunlight against his tanned skin. “Do you want to get lunch before I go back to work?”

“Yeah. Sure,” he said.

They started walking back towards the cars with Stiles’s hands tucked into his jeans.

“I didn’t know you hunted.”

“Mhm.”

“So, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve hunted?”

 “I don’t know that I’ve hunted anything weird.”

“Don’t be boring.”

Chris smiled again. He hadn’t done it much today, not even the little ones.

“Once I shot a grizzly with a second row of teeth.”

“Seriously?”

“It wasn’t a full row, but behind his canines he had another set and a few more scattered in front.”

“That’s nightmare material,” Stiles said. “Have you gone to Africa?”

“A few times.”

“Did you hunt lions?”

“Once,” Chris said.  “I liked hunting impala more.”

“Are they your favorite?”

“They’re close.”

“What is your favorite?”

“Bear, but they terrify me.”

“Then why are they your favorite?” Stiles asked, laughing.

“Because they terrify me.”

“You need therapy.”

“When I was six or seven my sister let me watch a movie called _Grizzly._ There was a fifty foot tall bear and it gave me the worst nightmares. I’ve been called for contracts in Montana and Alaska and every time it nearly gives me a heart attack.”

Stiles laughed groaned. “You were traumatized.”

“Probably.”

“Is this the first wolf you’ve hunted?”

“No.”

“Do you like hunting them?”

“Some species.”

Before Stiles asked everything he wanted, they were back to the grass parking lot by the abused concrete road that dead-ended to gravel, then dirt.

“Do you want to go to the diner?” Chris asked.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Stiles got into his Jeep and followed Chris from the preserve then the few miles into town. A glint on the bowtie on the back of the Tahoe caught his eye. It was so bright. It swayed when he hit potholes. When Chris put on his brakes, Stiles had to slam his own with a screech of tires on the quiet main-street.

He pulled into a place along the curb in front of Chris and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Little black spots danced in front of his eyes with small see through squiggles of light as cars passed in a watery blur.

There was a tap on the glass, then Chris opened his door.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah, one sec,” Stiles said, rubbing into his closed lids. His head was starting to ache behind his sockets.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just got light-headed,” Stiles said, shaking himself and stepping out.

Chris pulled open the door of the diner and put his hand on Stiles back as he passed before following him inside. Stiles slid into a booth along the window and pulled out a menu from behind the napkin dispenser, pulling them apart when they stuck and handing one to Chris.

“Are you alright?” Chris said.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, shaking his head at himself. His ears were ringing like after he had been at the gun range too long. “Maybe my dad was onto something about laying low for a few days,” he said. “Don’t ever tell him I said that.”

“I’m calling him right now,” Chris said with a small smile, but he watched Stiles for a moment before looking down to his menu again.

The waitress came and took their orders then Stiles leaned back, blinking his blurring eyes and forcing himself to get it together. They ordered when the waitress came and Stiles sucked down half of the water she gave him before she had even stepped away.

Chris leaned up and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. He took a small white package from it and tossed it on the table.

“Take that. It’ll help your head,” Chris said.

Stiles groaned, but picked it up, tapping the white powder to loosen it. “I hate BC.”

“Don’t be a wuss.”

“Don’t be mean to me, I could have rabies or some crazy wolf virus, this could be the last time you’re annoyed by my presence,” Stiles said, shaking the powder into his mouth. Chris pushed his coke across the table for Stiles to chase the harsh bitterness from his tongue. When he looked up, Chris was frowning at him. “What?” Then he shook his head. “I’m kidding, kind of. Trust me I looked it up and the chance of getting rabies from a wolf are really low.”

“Who’s the hunter here?” Chris asked, smiling, but it looked tight.

Stiles laughed as he played with the BC wrapper, dumping a few white granules on the laminate table top.

When their food came, Stiles stomach rolled. It was a weird mixture. He wanted to eat all of it as quickly as possible, but another part flinched at the smell of so much grease soaked into the brown breading on the tenderized beef. He took his first bite and listened to Chris telling him about a trip he had in two weeks to South America.

“Colombia? How long will you be gone?”

“A week or so if everything goes well.”

“Cool. Text me when you get back in, we’ll go get dinner-,” Stiles stopped mid-sentence with a mouthful of chicken fried steak, chewing slowly. He was starving, it felt like he hadn’t eaten in days, but if he swallowed what was in his mouth he was going to heave it all over the table.

“Stiles?”

Heat washed down his face. His throat tightened and tingles of panic dotted his skin. He couldn’t swallow. It wasn’t choking. It wasn’t in his throat, but sweat broke over his body.

Chris pulled a handful of napkins from the dispenser and pushed them across the table. Stiles couldn’t look at him as he took them and put the paper to his mouth, pushing out half-chewed food with his tongue.

Chris gestured and the waitress came over. “Can I get a few boxes?”

“Sorry, that was gross,” Stiles said, wiping his mouth and wadding up the napkins, then rubbing his hand over his watering eyes.

“You’re fine. You just look like you need to get home.”

Stiles dropped his head into his hand, trying to get a steady breath. Warmth brushed over his knuckles. Chris was touching his fingers.

“Do you want me to drive you home?”

“No, I’m alright,” Stiles said, closing his eyes and willing his spinning head to slow down. The rest of his lunch was sitting in his stomach heavily. “I don’t know what’s up. Sorry, this is weird.”

“Don’t apologize,” Chris said, taking his hand away as the waitress came back and he started to scrape Stiles’s leftovers into one of the containers, then his own. “Can I bring you anything to your house? Do you have everything you’ll need?”

“No, man. Seriously that’s really good of you, but I’ll be okay,” Stiles said, with his eyes still squeezed shut. His head was starting to pound.

“Can I call your dad to come check on you later?”

Stiles laughed slightly. It sounded watery. When he got home he was going to be emptying his guts in the toilet through one end or the other. Everything was settling just beneath his throat.

“How about I just text you later and let you know I’m alive? Otherwise, I’ll have to explain to my dad why I was with you. He’s kind of a smart guy, he’ll probably catch on.”

Chris frowned, but nodded. Then he stood and took their boxes in one hand and held out his other to Stiles. Stiles took it and Chris helped him to his feet.

Stiles went to take out his wallet, but Chris shook his head.

“I took care of it.”

Chris kept a hand between his shoulders as they walked through the mostly empty diner. It was warm. It warmed passed the layers of his shirts and into his skin. He wanted to close his eyes and press back against it.

“Hello, Love.”

Stiles looked up from the sidewalk and squinted against the burn of the sun off of so much metal, the angles of cars, on street signs, on the motorcycle parked on the sidewalk right beside Chris’s SUV.  Peter was leaning against the black side of the Chevy. He came forward, ignoring Stiles and going to Chris.

Chris was only an inch or so taller, but it was enough for Peter to have to tilt up his chin. He opened his mouth and Stiles saw a flash of tongue. They were so close Stiles could feel the heat off of Peter’s arm. When he was about to step away, Chris pulled back.

 “Stiles, this is Peter,” Chris said. “Peter, this is the sheriff’s son, Stiles.”

“Yeah, we met the other day,” Stiles said, but he held out his hand again. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Always a pleasure,” Peter said.

There was sun glare. It glinted off of Peter’s eyes and made them red for a split second.

“I heard you had a run in with the big bad wolf,” Peter said.

“Yeah, it’s not bad.”

“Do you mind if I see?” Peter asked.

 “Peter practices holistic medicine,” Chris said.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles said. “It really isn’t bad anymore. It didn’t go as deep as I thought.”

He pulled off his flannel then pulled over the edge of his shirt collar underneath. Peter stood in front of him until he was close enough to feel his warmth over the quiet burn of the sun. He swallowed down the lump of impending puke in his throat. A breeze came cool and sweet passed Peter and against Stiles’s heated skin. Water. His eyesight slipped and he could see his mom taking down laundry as the wind rose in the backyard, making sheets flatten and whip as the sky grew gray. Tide and rain.

He was ripped back as a bead of sweat broke between his shoulders and rolled down his spine. Peter was touching his shoulder, prodding softly at the punctures. Then his nose was just above it so that Stiles had to lift his chin to give him room. His hand brushed Stiles’s, then his fingers were around his sore wrist. Something wet touched his neck.

“That’s enough, Peter,” Chris said.

Peter brushed up the inside of Stiles’s wrist and pulled away with an easy smile.

“I think you’ll live.”

Stiles laughed. The light-headed pulse growing. He swayed. A firm hand gripped his shoulder and another braced his chest.

“Stiles?” Chris asked.

“I’m good,” Stiles said. Sunspots danced in front of his eyes. “I think the sun’s just getting to me.”

“Do you need me to drive you home?” Chris asked.

“No. Thanks, but…”

He was going to pass out. Vomit churned in his gut. He was going to vomit, then he was going to pass out. Then Peter’s hand was around his bruised wrist again. Dull pain throbbed into his arm. His hand was hot.

“Get in the car,” Chris said, opening the passenger side door and urging Stiles in with a hand between his shoulders. “Give Peter your keys. He’ll follow us.”

“You don’t have to-.”

“It’s that or I take you to the hospital,” Chris said.

Stiles lifted off the seat to dig in his pocket, holding out his Jeep keys to Peter. “Thanks. Sorry.”

Sorry because he seemed like an alright guy, even if he did seem creepy and he wanted to fuck his husband so bad sometimes he could taste it.

Peter smiled and took his keys. His fingers brushed against Stiles’s palm.

“It’s no problem,” Peter said.

Chris drove them to Stiles’s house a few miles away towards the edge of town. Stiles wouldn’t let him walk him to the door, but he thanked him again.

“If you need anything call me,” Chris said. “If you don’t keep in touch by six I’m calling the sheriff.”

“Yes, Dad,” Stiles said, as he closed the door, then leaned against it to speak in the window. “Thanks, really.”

“Go get in bed.”

He heard the rattle of his Jeep turn into his driveway as he looked at Chris. His chest throbbed with his stomach. If his insides weren’t turning so hard, he thought his heart would probably hurt a lot more as he listened to his Jeep door shut and he couldn’t look away from Chris, who was going to go home with his husband, probably cuddle on the couch and watch movies all night. That’s what he would do if he had Chris. He would cuddle with him and give him lazy hand jobs and blow jobs during commercials. If he was Stiles’s, he would work to make sure Chris didn’t stay in the diner all the time. He would learn to cook if that’s what it took.

Chris smiled softly at him and Stiles felt like crying, like Chris knew every thought that just passed through his head.

Stiles made himself look away as Peter came around the hood of the Tahoe.

“Thanks for bringing my Jeep.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Peter said. “You should go inside, you don’t look good.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, he gave Chris another small smile and a weak wave before he went to his door.

When he made it inside, he barely made it to the toilet to heave. That was okay. The force of it helped block out the image of Peter pushing his tongue into Chris’s mouth and the way that had jarred his own heart when it had no right to. His dad was right. He got in over his head and he fucked himself over.

He was almost grateful when he vomited again.

***

Stiles laid in his bed with his boxers and sheets sticking to his skin, his fan in the corner turning back and forth. His laptop was on the bedside table, Netflix opened and set to Sherlock. He had gotten through the first season and was starting on the second at nearly seven at night. His phone vibrated in his hand again. Despite the gallons of water leaking from his pores, he smiled slightly.

Chris: _Are you feeling any better?_

_About the same as I was an hour ago. Ur such a mom._

Chris: _No. If I was a mom you would’ve let me bring you food. I’m guessing what you have in your house isn’t fit for a sick person._

_Ramen noodles actually settle the stomach._

Chris: _Is that what you have?_

_Give me a break. I don’t shop a lot._

His head was starting to pound again, so his wit was running low. He laid back on one pillow and held another to his chest and dozed off and on for about an hour before he heard a quiet knock. At first he thought he was hearing things, so he just zoned out. Then they knocked again.

He stumbled out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweats. When he pulled open the door, he smiled then winced.

“Dude, seriously, you don’t want to be here. I smell like shit, I feel like it,” Stiles said.

“Well, _dude,_ you needed food,” Chris said, “Are you going to let me in?”

Stiles looked over his shoulder at his house. There were a few cups sitting around, but it wasn’t awful, so he took a step back and let Chris pass. He loved the smell of his cologne later at night like it was in the diner. It had worn down and into his skin, his clothes. He felt some of the uncomfortableness seep out of him as Chris went to the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” Chris asked.

Stiles leaned against the wall by the open kitchen door. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking. Go lay down.”

“You’re going to cook and I’m just supposed to leave you in here to be bored?”

Chris took Stiles large pot he cooked pasta in and filled it with water. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”

“You really don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Chris said. “Do you want potato or chicken noodle?”

“Would chicken in potato soup be any good?”

“I’ll put something together. Go lay down.”

It was more of a relief than he would admit to be able to go lay back down. Even standing up for that long made his head pulse and his eyesight fuzzy. He pulled one of his pillows back to his chest and cuddled down in his blankets as he listened to Chris moving in the kitchen one thin wall away.

He rubbed his stomach while he watched Sherlock and John arguing and listened to chincy music. Half an hour later, Chris came in with a plastic sack and tossed the empty water bottles on the bedside table, his chocolate wrappers, and toilet paper from blowing his nose.

“I’m going to die of humiliation,” Stiles said.

“You think I haven’t seen a whiny sick kid before?” Chris asked. “What are you watching?”

“Sherlock. Want to watch with me?”

“I’ll get some more water first.”

Chris left with his trashbag and was back a few minutes later. Stiles took the pills Chris gave him and downed most of the water. Then he patted the bed beside him.

“Climb on in, buddy, if you don’t mind catching Ebola,” Stiles said.

Chris took the spare pillow and propped it against the headboard while Stiles rewound the episode. At first it made him a little on edge for Chris to be there, but it faded, mostly because he felt like too much shit. The cramps in his stomach were awful. His fingers were sore from digging into his muscles.

“This is the worst flu ever,” Stiles said with his eyes closed.

Chris put his hand on Stiles and pulled him slightly. He rolled onto his back and Chris bumped his hand away, rubbing his cool palm on his bare stomach.

“Is that alright?” Chris asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said tiredly not opening his eyes. “It feels good.”

He passed out with Chris rubbing his stomach, occasionally massaging his rough fingers into his seizing muscles. It all felt better with someone else rubbing. He could sleep with the faint smell of food coming in through the hall.

Chris woke him up a little while later and made him eat some potato soup that he probably would’ve loved if his stomach wasn’t in congealed throbbing knots. When he finished, Chris took his bowl and gave him more water. He heard him moving around in the kitchen again before he passed back out.

When he woke up again, the pain in his joints was worse, in his stomach, it was so sharp. The room was dark, his laptop closed and humming quietly.

“Chris?”

Then he nearly choked on a sob when a wave of pain passed down his body. Chris was gone. There wasn’t any reason for him to have stayed. The pain was so bad though. Then he heard the creak of the weak spot in the living room and listened to Chris’s footsteps before he saw him in the doorway.

“Are you alright?”

“God, fuck it hurts,” he said.

The bed compressed then Chris’s hand was on his sweat-soaked forehead. A t-shirt or something was being dragged over his face before he was being pulled against Chris’s chest.

“I don’t want to be that guy,” Stiles said with his jaw trembling, “But I think I might need to go to the hospital.”

Chris’s hand was on his stomach, rubbing hard soothing circles. His body tensed and he whimpered. Then it eased, like first getting a massage and the knots had to be worked out. The pain all lessened. He was cooler.

Chris’s hand brushed his hair off his forehead from behind. He thought he felt his lips against his hairline.

“Just try to sleep through it,” he mumbled. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m such a pussy, but fuck,” he said, his body tensing under another cramp. It was like it drew every bit of slack in his body until his legs were nearly touching his chest.

He wanted to ask to go to the hospital again, but words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. He couldn’t manage to make his tongue move the way he needed it too. Noises built in his throat, whines. He sounded like a fucking dog. When the pain wouldn’t stop, he pushed his face into Chris’s neck and gave up.

This was the worst fucking dream, but Chris was there. Holding him, rubbing his back. Only he could have dreams this shitty. In bed with the man he was so far gone for, and he was shaking apart in pain until he was unconscious again.

***

When Stiles woke up again, it still seemed dark until his eyes adjusted. The blanket from the living room was over the window, blocking out most of the light, leaving only a sliver coming in the bottom. He rolled away from it as his head pounded.

His hand connected with something warm and solid.

His eyes shot open enough to make his head reel. Chris was asleep beside him. As Stiles stared, Chris opened his eyes.

“How do you feel?” he asked with his voice rough.

“Like shit,” he said through his dry throat.

Chris leaned over and took a glass of water on the bedside table. Stiles took it with Chris’s hand hovering near it while he drank. When he finished, Chris took it back and laid back down.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Stiles said, closing his eyes again. “I’m glad you did. You didn’t have to though.”

Chris pulled him closer until Stiles could smell the faint scent he loved. Maybe it wasn’t even cologne. Maybe it was just his skin. The way the softener on his t-shirt mixed with his body. Stiles rubbed his cheek against his collarbone as he settled closer.

He didn’t know what the fuck this situation meant, but he didn’t care. His body ached. His head felt like it was pounding apart. All he knew is being against Chris helped. Stiles put his arm over his stomach and pulled closer.

He felt Chris’s lips press to his hair as he fell back asleep.

 

***

 

Peter sat in the living room in the early hours of Saturday when he heard the front door come open. He listened to Chris take off his jacket and hang it on the hook before he came into the room, pushing up the long sleeves of his gray sweater. The soil warmth of his skin teased Peter with the feet between them. It was sweatier now, mixed with the smell of perspiration, worry, and pain. 

“How is he?”

“He’s alive.”

“Good,” Peter said.

Chris walked passed the couch to the hall where the stairs were.

“I’m going to bed. I was up all night with him,” Chris said.

“Sleep well.”

He could feel the bristling catch beneath his skin with every page he turned in his book, every breath he took. His other half wasn’t happy with him. Its fur prickled beneath every inch of him. 

It was a testament to his will that he lasted an hour before he climbed the stairs and went into his and Chris’s bedroom. He took off his clothes and crawled into bed behind him, slipping his arms around him with twenty years of ease. Chris slept on the very edge now and Peter tried not to feel pathetic that even that couldn’t keep him from crowding against him.

The sour scent of summer weeds growing in empty fields, taking over the warmth of the soil below, strangling the sweet green grass. Bitterness.

The pain was too stale to be sharp. He thought the numbness may be worse, the lump permanently lodged in his throat. The new smell, Stiles, eased it. That was enough to give some form of bastardized hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 was just posted on my Tumblr. :) 
> 
> Also, Chapter 7 is going to be all Peter x Stiles. I know it's been a slow burn to get to him.


	6. Chapter 6

The first time Stiles woke up on Saturday, Chris was there. The next, he wasn’t. He hardly noticed. His head throbbed so hard if felt like it was vibrating against his pillow. The bird that lived outside his window made his eardrums feel like they were going to bleed out of his skull.

He was supposed to work, but he couldn’t talk, so he texted his dad with the screen brightness turned all the way down. When it vibrated on his bed, he couldn’t make himself move the pillow he had crushed over his head to look at it.

He used to have migraines in high school. His shrink said they were anxiety-induced. She put him on pills for a few years and they went away. His stomach rolled, acid creeping up the back of his throat, into his nose. He swallowed it down again and again, until he rolled over and bile came out in strings.

For a moment, he just laid there.

His fingers brushed the puddle. It dried on his chin before he forced himself up.

Everything moved. The floor wasn’t solid anymore. It was like being in a funhouse. He hit the hallway wall with his shoulder. Only grabbing the entryway to the laundry room kept him on his feet.

He had been walking through the house blind, but he opened his eyes and almost screamed. The little yelp he let out still rocked his head down the foundation. It felt like it was liquefying, his eyes sockets lined in sand. That was only from the light coming through the closed blinds in the living room.

He took a towel from the dryer and wiped his chin. When he made it back to his bedroom, he put the towel over the spot, stepping on it until he could feel the wet through the cloth. Then he laid back down and pulled the other pillow back over his head.

He didn’t know if it was going back to sleep or blacking out, but when he woke again, he heard the front door coming open. He didn’t even move. He didn’t know what time it was, because that would require judging the little slant of light creeping in under the blanket on the window. It wasn’t worth it. It was probably his dad or Scott. Even if it was a burglar, he didn’t give a fuck. Maybe they would put a round through his skull and end his misery.

There were footsteps on the hall carpet, then his bedroom door creaked open.

“Stiles?”

Stiles moved the pillow off his head and looked at Chris at the foot of his bed.

“Hey.”

Chris came around the bed and touched his forehead. “I let myself in. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” he said, closing his eyes again.

He could smell him. Like the campsite his mom and dad used to take him to before she died. The one closest to the lake, by the rock cliff that always smelled of wet sandstone, soil, and sun. He could smell the Armorall in his mom’s old Mustang where he sat crammed in with the sleeping bags as they drove out there. Hear her laughing.

“You’re warm.”

“It feels like it,” Stiles said.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Chris left the room then Stiles heard the sink in the kitchen running. The water pinging off the stainless steel was almost deafening. Then Chris was back, touching his shoulder.

“Take a drink,” Chris said.

Stiles did then Chris gave him a handful of aspirin.

“You don’t have to be here.”

“How do you feel?” Chris asked.

“Awful.”

“Your head?”

“It feels like it’s going to explode.”

“The pills should help. Do you need anything else?”

Stiles shook his head, then winced, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Okay. I’ll be in the living room.”

Stiles cracked open his eyes and watched him go towards the bedroom door. Since it felt like he was dying, his sense of decency went out of the window. He wasn’t even convinced he had a sense of decency anymore. It seemed to have disappeared around the time he saw Chris at the diner counter the first time. There was an echo of it and he muzzled it.

“Is it weird if you stay in here?”

Chris paused with his hand on the doorknob, then shook his head. “No.”

He sat on the end of the bed and the muscles of his back moved beneath his t-shirt as he bent to unlace his boots. They clunked quietly to the floor, then he moved up the bed and laid down. They stayed on their backs. Stiles staring at the ceiling while his eyes pulsed at the popcorn white of it.

“Is it weird if I lay like I did last night?”

Then Chris’s arm was sliding beneath his neck and the other over his side. It felt like his skin was burning off, but somehow the warmth of Chris’s helped. Even with the smell of his own dry mouth coming back from the curve of Chris’s neck, his stomach stopped seizing so hard.

“Do you think I have distemper or something?”

“It’s just the flu.”

“You’re going to catch it.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Stiles didn’t have it in him to say anymore. His mind wasn’t working right. Chris was laying under him, letting him use him as a pillow, but all he could smell was the heat on rocks with water, mixing with grass under the stagnant closed smell of his room. Just whiffs hardly there when the fan in the corner shifted. That’s all he could think about and that’s all that was important as he passed back out.

***

When he woke up again, Chris wasn’t in bed, but he could hear the fridge opening in the kitchen. His bladder dragged him to the bathroom before he went to the kitchen. The beep of the microwave was nearly earsplitting, but the light on above the stove didn’t hurt as bad as the sunlight had earlier.

Chris took out a bowl of soup before he looked up.  

“How do you feel?”

“Like I was run over by a truck,” Stiles said as he went to the cabinet and made himself something to drink.

“There’s Gatorade in the fridge. Drink one of those then some water,” Chris said.

“So bossy,” Stiles croaked, but he made a glass of water and took out a bottle of the whiteish Gatorade that looked like spooge.

“Where do you usually eat?” Chris asked.

“The living room.”

“You can go sit down. I’ll be in there in a minute.”

“You don’t have to take care of me like this.”

“Will you call your dad to do it?”

“He’s working.”

“Alright then.”

“You’re so stubborn.”

“Go sit down before you fall down.”

Stiles went, but not before he brushed the taste of stale vomit out of his mouth. He changed his shirt and pants too, because there were some crusted places on them that looked and smelled suspect. That was the extent of his caring though. His hair was fucked, his face was blotchy and washed out. He didn’t even turn on the light in the bathroom when he changed. By the time he collapsed on the couch, he was close to going headlong on the floor.

He flipped on the TV and gritted his teeth when the sound boomed off the walls. The volume was already less than a quarter. When he put it on two and it was still too loud. The colors were too much. He turned in against the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, Chris came in and gave him a bowl of soup. They ate watching a re-run of Bob’s Burgers. He didn’t even like laughing. He didn’t even want to laugh.

“Do you ever watch this?” Stiles asked.

“Peter does.”

“Really?”

Chris nodded, scraping the edge of his bowl before putting it to the side.

“Does he know you’re here?”

Chris nodded again. Then he picked up his bowl and Stiles’s from the coffee table. “Drink your water. You’re dehydrated.”

Stiles listened to him washing the dishes as his head pounded. Chris was quiet, like he knew without him having to say anything that his head was killing him. When he came back, he gave Stiles more pills. He took them then turned the cup on his pant leg, the condensation matting the fabric to his thigh.

“If you being here is going to cause issues or anything, I’ll be okay by myself,” Stiles said.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m just don’t want to make anything hard for you.”

“You won’t,” Chris said. “One of those pills was to help you sleep some more.”

“I’ve slept all fucking day,” Stiles said, but he was still leaning against the back of the couch with his feet on the cushion between them.

“Yeah, you need to sleep.”

Stiles puffed out and watched the nearly muted cartoon with his eyelids getting heavier and heavier.

“What time is it?” Stiles asked.

“Six.”

He must have dozed, because when he woke up, Chris had a computer on his lap in the dark living room. It shone on his face, making dark spaces under the hood of his eyes and beneath his nose. His fingers tapped on the keyboard. It shouldn’t be so damn loud, but it set his teeth on edge. His head still pounded like a drum.

“What’re you doing?”

Chris glanced over. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Stiles shrugged.

“I was answering some emails. My trip got moved up.”

“To when?”

“Tuesday.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“A week.”

“Cool.”

“Do you want to watch TV?”

“Sure.”

Chris turned the TV back on and it wound up on Fraiser. He actually liked Fraiser, but then it was just as annoying as anything else they could’ve picked. It took him a minute to realize his feet were against Chris’s thigh, he didn’t move them, letting the heat through from Chris’s jeans.

When one episode ended, Chris leaned over and pressed his hand to Stiles’s forehead again, then pushed the back against his cheek.

“You’ve cooled down.”

“Yeah I feel a little better.”

Chris’s hand stayed on his cheek just a beat too long. His eyes stayed on Stiles’s for a moment longer than they should have. Then it felt like his skin was lined in electric. Chris cupped his jaw and brushed his thumb over his cheek. The TV played off his light eyes. Then he leaned closer and Stiles closed his eyes and felt his lips. It was a dry soft kiss then parted, then the wet slide of Chris’s tongue against his. Stiles moved his hand from the cushion between them to lay his hand on his stomach.

Chris pulled away, kissed him again, and again. His eyes were glazed when he looked down at Stiles’s mouth then brushed his cheek again, and pushed his fingers back through his hair.

“You should go to bed.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He swallowed down his nerves. “You should come with me.”

"Okay," Chris said and kissed him again.

Chris stood and helped him to his feet. Stiles’s heart fluttered in his chest. They had slept in bed together, but this time they were going to bed together. They had just kissed. He had just kissed Chris. As exciting and panic inducing as that might be, his stomach was cramping so bad, his head hurt so badly his eyesight kept going fuzzy.

When they reached the bedroom, Stiles reached for his own sweats, then stumbled back against the bed as looking down made his head swim.

“I’ve got it,” Chris said, right in front of him in the dark. Stiles could feel the heat pinging off his skin, then his thumbs at the waistband of his pants.

Stiles braced himself on Chris’s shoulder as his pants hit the floor, leaving his underwear. Then Chris was pulling back the blankets and pushing him back on the mattress. Stiles frowned and turned in against the pillow sniffing.

“Did you wash these?”

“Mhm.”

“They smell good,” Stiles said, rubbing his cheek against his pillow.

Chris’s clothes shifted then the mattress sank on the far side.

“Come here.”

Stiles did, like a heat seeking missile, straight to the warm soil smell of Chris’s throat. He just wanted to hold him down and lick him, suck up the little scent line and bury his nose behind his ear.

“No one said I wanted to cuddle with you,” Stiles said, tightening his arm around Chris’s middle.

Chris snorted, running his fingers through the back of his hair. “No, just anytime I move away, you dig your fingers into my ribs.”

“Whatever.”

Chris tightened his arms, pressing his cheek against his hair and Stiles curled down against him. The pounding of his head lessened. It almost seemed like he could hear Chris’s heartbeat. Steady and slow. Warm and strong. The blinding cramps in his stomach didn’t seem as bad.

He listened to the way he breathed, convincing himself Chris had gone to sleep a handful of times before he opened his mouth.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”  

“Does this mean anything? Or does this happen a lot?”

He half expected Chris to drag it out and make him explain what he meant. He just fell harder for him when he didn’t.

“It means something.”

The amount of Nyquil in his body made him loose enough to ask what was lodged in his throat. He had to or when Chris went to Colombia he was going to beat himself to death with questions he couldn’t get answers to.

“Are you not happy?”

Chris exhaled and Stiles could hear it leaving his lungs in a long slow breath. “Peter and I haven’t been good in a long time. But I didn’t know how unhappy I was until a few months ago.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I think so,” Chris said.

Stiles rubbed his cheek against him again and felt Chris kiss his hair. There was something under the happiness, maybe it was guilt, but the happiness was so strong it felt like he could purr.

***

In the morning, Stiles made himself go to work. It was still dark as he dressed and started to put on his boots on the edge of the bed. He was just going to leave Chris and let him sleep, then he rolled over and touched his shoulder.  

“Are you going to work?”

“Yeah. We’re already short-handed,” Stiles said.

“Do you feel better?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t really know. The shower hadn’t made him fall over and moving hadn’t killed him yet.

“Can you work dispatch?”

“Yeah, I already texted Dad.”

“Good.”

Chris got up, then walked out of the room. The light in the bathroom turned on, bleeding down the hall and into his room. He hadn’t realized how dark it was until he saw the yellow light on his fingers. It must be close to a full moon, because he had seen perfectly fine until then. He didn’t put it together that the moon didn’t matter, because the blanket was still over his bedroom window.

The walls were so thin he could hear Chris pissing, then the water running as he brushed his teeth. When he came back in, he was wearing a different shirt. He could smell the chlorine cleanness of it. It was subtle, nice, but he could still smell it across his small bedroom.

“You don’t have to go,” Stiles said.

“I have some arrangements to make before my trip,” Chris said.

Stiles nodded, then pushed himself off the bed. “Do I get to see you before you head out?”

Chris pressed his palm to his forehead then his cheek. “You’re still warm.”

“I feel okay.”

“Do you care if I come back after your shift?”

“No,” Stiles said.

For once, he was almost glad for the pounding of his head. It made the eager teenager in his brain lethargic, so that didn’t come out as excited as it could have. Chris squeezed the side of his neck.

“I really don’t want you going on any calls.”

“I won’t,” Stiles said.

His dad wouldn’t let him anyway, but he didn’t think he would even if his dad didn’t care. It was going to be good enough that he came in. That was pushing down the way Chris was looking at him, like he really cared that he didn’t go on patrol.

He couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and Chris slid his arm around his back and pulled him closer. The soft give of his lips was a drug. The stiff short hair bordering his mouth scraped Stiles’s. He pushed for it to go deeper. He could really taste Chris, spit, and mint, the unnamable parts that were just him.

Then Chris pulled away. They looked at each other for a few moments then Stiles grabbed his gun-belt from the top of his dresser. Chris gave him his jacket from the back of the couch when Stiles would have forgotten it, then they were on his front step as he locked the door. Chris hugged him in the cold. His scruff scraped his cheek and Stiles’s heart hammered.

No one was awake. The streets were empty and he was hugging Chris. His lips still tingled with the mint of his toothpaste. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and hugged him tighter.

“Be careful,” Chris said.

“Yeah. You too.”

Chris kissed his cheek, then let him go, walking down to his Tahoe parked by the curb. Crystals hung on the grass, crushing under his boots as he went to his own Jeep. His headlights flashing against the garage door made light spots pulse in front of his eyes, but it wasn’t anything like the last two days.

Chris didn’t leave until he had reversed out of the driveway and passed him. Stiles watched his taillights disappear the opposite way in his rearview mirror.

***

His head pounding had one benefit, he could only worry so much. He could only freak out so much about what happened with Chris and what could happen, that his husband was sitting around somewhere while Stiles was lying in bed with him. It kept him from worrying about the fact that he didn’t know if he even cared.

He answered the few calls they had in the early morning hours. Relayed information to the cars out. When he heard Derek’s rough voice on the other end of the radio, his heart jumped, but he made his voice even.

When Parrish came in with Scott during their break, they drank coffee with him at the desk.

“How do you feel?” Scott asked.

“Like crap.”

“Have you gone to the doctor?” Parrish asked.

“I’ve been enough the last week. It’s just a migraine or something.”

The front door came open, and his dad came in with a gush of cold wind.

“Morning, Pop,” he said.

“Scott, watch the desk. Stiles, I need to talk to you,” John said, not stopping.

Scott and Parrish looked at Stiles like he had just been called into the principal’s office. Stiles felt like it as he stood up and followed his dad back through the bullpen to his office. He closed the door behind him and his dad stood by his desk, staring down at it before stiffening his shoulders.

“I came by to check on you last night,” John said.

Stiles’s stomach dropped. “Oh.”

“Stiles, what was he doing there?”

“He came by to check on me.”

“And he stayed the night?”

He thought of lying. Then he nodded. If his dad was asking then he probably already knew.

“Son,” John said, dragging his hand down his face.

He looked tired. He sounded exhausted. Like when he pulled all his shit in high school and his dad was constantly there having to pick up the pieces, because it looked so great for the sheriff not to be able to control his own kid. Stiles looked at the floor and swallowed around the amount of guilt he should have felt then. Not for Chris. Not really, but for making his dad feel this way, for making him sound that way.

“We didn’t do anything,” he said.

“I don’t believe that.”

Stiles looked up to find his dad looking at him.

“Married, Stiles. He’s married.”

“He isn’t happy.”

“Is that what he told you?”

Stiles nodded.

“And it’s your responsibility to make him happy?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what it comes down to. You would be on the side making him happy.”

Stiles opened his mouth then closed it before he looked at the floor again.

“You need to understand something, best case scenario, he leaves his husband of twenty years. Twenty years next to three months, that’s about how long you two have been doing this, right? So three months and Peter loses his husband? How is that fair?”

“How is it fair for him to have to stay in a relationship he isn’t happy in?”

“No,” his dad said. “Don’t try to justify what you’re doing. If you’re going to do it then realize that you’re helping destroy a home. If they want to go their separate ways it should be from them deciding to do it by themselves, not because you put yourself between them.”

Stiles kept looking at the ground, started to bring his thumbnail to his mouth, then dropped it again, looking across the office away from his dad.

“I know you’re crazy about him,” his dad said, “But someone gets hurt in this anyway it happens and you shouldn’t have been involved in the first place.”

Stiles nodded then rolled his shoulders. “Can I just go back to work?”

His dad looked at him across the room then nodded. “You should try to get into Dr. Miller. I can let you go early.”

“I’m okay,” Stiles said as he walked out and closed the door behind him.

When his phone vibrated with a text from Chris an hour later, he didn’t answer it. It didn’t stop him from looking at it off and on until his shift ended.

***

When he pulled up to his house, Chris wasn’t there, so he went inside and took a few more aspirin. For the most part he could walk without getting dizzy, but the shrill ringing of the phones all day had made his head pound again.

He heard Chris’s SUV pull up a few minutes before he knocked on the door. Stiles got up and let him in.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked, walking away before Chris could touch him.

“I’m okay. How do you feel?” Chris asked.

“Alright,” Stiles said, from the kitchen where he was filling his own glass for something to do.

“How was work?” Chris asked.

“Slow. Did you get your stuff taken care of?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles took a deep breath before walked back out. Chris was standing by the arm of the couch. Stiles stayed by the wall, keeping a rug-length between them as he drank his water like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Good,” Stiles said. Then he shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me my dad came by?”

Chris shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry. I forgot. You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I don’t want to be the reason you and Peter separate or divorce or whatever and I can’t be a guy on the side,” Stiles said. “I know, we just talked about this this morning and it might be soon or whatever, but I just want to put it out there.”

Chris looked at him until Stiles couldn’t look at him. The house felt better with him in it. His head didn’t hurt so badly, his bones didn’t ache as much. Everything felt better and he tried not to have a panic attack at the thought of him never being there again of never seeing him again, hearing him talk, laugh at games and fights.

“You aren’t responsible for what happens between me and Peter,” Chris said. “I can’t guarantee what will happen between Peter and I, but whatever does, it’s between us, it’s our responsibility.”

“But what would that mean for me?” Stiles asked then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, that’s selfish, but-.”

“You’d be stupid if you didn’t ask,” Chris said. “I want to give you a solid answer, but with the way things are with Peter and I, I don’t know. I know that I like being with you.” Chris tilted back his head and looked at the ceiling for a moment before Stiles saw his throat bob. “I love you and as long as you want it, I can be here.”

His heart jumped into his throat. It had only been three months, but fuck. Really how long had his friends dated each other before they said it? It wasn’t six months or a year or the bullshit they showed in movies.

“What about Peter?”

“There are things I have to be around for with Peter. I can never leave him completely. I understand if that’s too much for you.”

“Does he know about this?”

“He does.”

“What does he say about it?”

“I haven’t asked.”

Stiles nodded and looked at the floor. Then Chris came closer, slowly, like he was coming up to a skittish animal. Stiles looked up at him then away, because his eyes were tingling.

“What the fuck did I get myself into?” Stiles asked.

“If it helps, I didn’t expect this,” Chris said.

Stiles leaned into his chest when Chris put his arms around him. His mind was still torn, self-preservation and stupidity. Like always, the later was winning, making the other quieter and quieter until all he could hear was Chris’s breathing.

“Can we just act like this isn’t a big deal right now? My head is killing me.”

“We can do that,” Chris said, then kissed his hair. “I want you to think about it while I’m gone.”

Stiles huffed a humorless laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t be able to help myself.”

If his head didn’t kill him, maybe they would’ve fucked around or even kissed some more, but they didn’t. Chris let him lean against him while they watched TV. He went to the diner and got them a to-go order. Starting around seven, Chris started to check his watch every ten minutes or so, until Stiles couldn’t ignore his shifting anymore.

“Do you need to go?”

“Probably.”

He leaned up and Chris sat up, pulling on his boots. “Can I see you before I leave tomorrow?” Chris asked.

“I’d be kind of pissed if you didn’t,” Stiles said with a weak smile. Then he picked at the seam of the couch. “Is this one of those things with Peter you were talking about?”

Chris nodded.

“Is he on dialysis or something?”

“It’s like that,” Chris said then he stood up and Stiles stood with him. “I’ll explain more when I get back, I promise. I want you to think about this.”

“Okay.”

“I have to go,” Chris said.

“Okay.”

Chris took his face in his hands and kissed him firmly. Stiles kissed him back with a knot of something solid festering in his stomach. It felt like he was itching beneath his skin. His joints aching and his jaw tingling. Chris’s mouth made it better and worse until Chris was hugging him tightly and Stiles was leaning into him, breathing against his neck.

When Chris walked out of the front door, Stiles watched him go, his back washed out in blue light, so bright it was almost like negative daylight. He lifted his hand when Chris pulled away and listened to the exhaust note until it was gone. He didn’t look up or even notice that the moon was nearly full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The infidelity feels will lessen, since happy ending eventually and all, but if this kind of tension isn't for you, this may be a rough story.


	7. Chapter 7

It was just passed seven the next morning when Stiles got a text from Chris, asking if they could meet at the coffee shop. When he got there, Chris was standing at the condiment counter, loading down his coffee with creamer.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hey,” Chris said, pushing another coffee towards him. “I didn’t want to get you up this early.”

“I had to be up anyway,” Stiles said, unsnapping the lid and starting to doctor it the way he wanted. “Thanks.”

Chris nodded. “My flight leaves in an hour.”

“Okay.”

“How do you feel?”

“My head still hurts, but otherwise I’m good,” he said.

It seemed like a minor thing to say when it felt like a marching band was parading from his forehead down his spine. Last night he’d slept a half hour here and there, but it was nothing. He choked down the coffee and winced as it blistered his tongue.

“Can you come out to my car?”

“Sure,” Stiles said, following Chris out of the warmth of the café and into the bitter cold of the still dark.

When Chris turned the ignition of the Tahoe it rumbled quietly with a morning radio show playing between them. Chris turned it down with the green of the gauges glowing on his fingers.

Stiles twisted his fingers in the pockets of his department-issued jacket. He stared at the numbers on the radio then away when they started to go fuzzy. Maybe he should go home. His eyes dragged. He thought the vinyl of the dash would be cool against his forehead.

“Maybe you should go home,” Chris echoed.

Stiles shook his head, but leaned back against the headrest. “I can do paperwork.”

“Staring at papers isn’t going to help.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Chris’s hand was cool when he pushed it to his forehead again. Stiles closed his eyes as Chris brushed it down to squeezed the side of his neck. They were talking about a wreck on the interstate on the radio. Their voices fell to a murmur in the quiet cabin. There was a quiet ticking somewhere in the truck, muffled and even.

“What’s that noise?”

“What noise?” Chris asked.

“It's like ticking.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Chris said.

Heated air started to blow out of the vents. The smell of leather and grass. Stiles eased his eyes open to the washed out world of orange in the street lights. A car drove by with one taillight, the other blinking feebly before it turned at the stop sign. The coffee was helping. The intense ache that was causing him to see double was lessening. He glanced at the clock then sat up straighter.

“Shit, Chris, I’m sorry,” he said.

It had been twenty minutes since he sat down. It vanished.

“You’re okay,” Chris said.

“You’re going to miss your flight.”

“It’s a private plane. It’s waiting on me.”

“You have a plane?”

“No. The people I’m selling to do.”

Stiles leaned across the console and put an arm around Chris’s shoulders. “Have fun, I guess. Be safe.”

"I will." 

Chris hugged him with an arm around his neck and the other around his lower back. When he didn’t let go, Stiles pushed his face into the side of his neck.

“Is it creepy if I missed you last night?” Stiles asked muffled by his skin.

“Probably.”

Stiles pressed his fingers into the grooves of Chris’s ribs beneath his jacket. Chris squeezed his hand and kissed his temple before pulling away.

“I missed you too,” Chris said.

“Sure you did.”

Chris was smiling a little as he leaned forward and they kissed. The thought of kissing anyone an hour ago while he was about to vomit from his headache, eased. The aches everywhere chilled out when Chris pushed his tongue in against his. Stiles pulled away eventually, nipping Chris’s lower lip when he did.

“You need to go.”

“I’ll come by your house when I get back in.”

“I can’t text you, can I?”

“No, but I can call you. Just answer your phone if you don’t know the number.”

“Okay.”

“And I can email,” Chris said. He pulled a card from his jacket pocket, then a pen.

“Such a boyscout.”

Chris ignored him as he wrote out his email on the back and gave it to him. “I don’t know how often I’ll be able to answer. If everything goes how it’s supposed to, I’ll be back Sunday night.”

“Okay.”

Stiles kissed him again then he made himself get out. “Be safe. Really.”

“You too.”

Stiles closed the door and gave Chris a small smile as the smell of exhaust swamped his nose and brought back his headache in full force.

***

The day turned out cold with the sun white and distant. It made the aches in his joints flare until he could only sit in the passenger seat of the cruiser drawn in on himself. By their first break at nine, Stiles gave up and went to sit behind his desk. Parrish and Derek ended up together, which he felt shitty about, but it was better for Parrish to have a partner that wasn’t seeing double.

When they came back for lunch, Derek followed Parrish into the bullpen. Stiles tensed slightly, but didn’t look up. He hadn’t seen Derek since their tiff in the locker room. His head tapped a hard staccato behind his left eye. One of them was wearing something woody smelling. He hoped it was Parrish, because it actually smelled good, earthy and warm. They murmured to each other while he tried to fill out papers that were becoming blurrier and blurrier.

He didn’t look up until he heard their voices stop, but still saw the bulk of Derek at the edge of his vision.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a lot shitter tone than he meant.

Derek’s eyebrows nearly touched as he stared down at him, then he started to walk off.

“Fucking psychopath,” Stiles mumbled, as he looked back down. All the words were turning to ants, growing legs and running from him. “Sorry you’re stuck with him.”

“He isn’t bad,” Parrish said. “If you weren’t trying to screw his uncle, you might like him.”

“I didn’t like him before.”

“You didn’t know him before.”

Stiles didn’t answer and before long, he laid his head on his crossed arms. Parrish left again after asking if he needed anything. Scott mom’ed him too. Luckily, his dad was gone, so he didn’t have to deal with him. It also left his single bathroom open, so when Stiles went to purge his guts around noon, he didn’t have to worry about anyone walking in on him. Still, when he opened the door to step out, Derek was leaning against his dad’s desk.

“You need to go home.”

“Fuck off,” Stiles said tiredly, going towards the door.

Then Derek touched his shoulder, barely, and it took his balance. His shoulder hit the wood paneling. He only stayed on his feet because Derek grabbed him by his shirt and kept him up.

“You’re sick. You need to go home,” Derek said.

Then Stiles realized how much he was sweating. The back of his uniform was stuck between his shoulder blades. A bead broke from his hairline and ran to his eyebrow as he looked down at the matted gray carpet of his dad’s office where he used to roll Tonka toys.

“Fine.”

“I’ll tell the sheriff when he comes in,” Derek said.

“I’ll call him,” Stiles said, but swallowed down the tightness in his throat. 

Derek let him pass then and go out to the bullpen. When he picked up his jacket from the back of his chair, Parrish nodded.

“Good. Go home. You look like death.”

“Thanks, pal,” Stiles said, folding his jacket over his arm, because it already felt like he was baking.

“Do you want me to drive you?” Scott asked.

“No. I’m fine.”

Then he left before anyone could force a ride on him. When he got home, he barely made it to the couch before he passed out.

***

When he woke, he knew it was a dream. Blue black light flooding into his house through all the windows with the curtains pulled down and the blinds pulled up. He paced barefoot over the grit-stained carpet, behind the couch, to the kitchen doorway. Pacing like he was waiting. The clock that used to be his mom’s was on the mantel ticking out the time. Roses on a white background washed out black.

When someone knocked on his foot door it sounded like he was in a chamber. It echoed from everything. From the cushions on his couch, the countertops of the kitchen, around and around in his eardrums. He pulled open the door without even reaching for his gun on the table. That’s how he knew it was a dream. He didn’t even check the peephole before it was open and a man was silhouetted on his porch.

Stiles couldn’t see his face, then he grew. It grew ears, its face lengthened, its chest rolled beneath its skin, things pushed underneath, moved and shifted. Fur sprouted then covered it like a pelt.

He still didn’t feel the need to reach for his gun, even when it laid within arms’ reach. That’s why he let it crowd him back down the hallway to his bedroom, then onto his bed. It covered him entirely. Its chest was warm and vibrating above him. Its padded hand came up and tilted his face to the side.

It was an overgrown dog. It licked, and licked. It wouldn’t stop, from the tip of his shoulder to his neck, up to his jaw, down to the collarbone. The throbbing lessened. The ache that had gone down to his chest leased.

His sweat was sticking him to the sheets. He lifted his hand and threaded his fingers into its scruff. Soft. Warm. It sounded like it started to growl, but it was around the noise of its tongue going out to pass over his skin again and again, like low-grade sandpaper. It sounded like a purr.

Stiles turned in against it and pressed his teeth against its jaw, right next to the ball of muscle at the back. It growled louder. A real growl, like the Rottweiler that used to live in the yard behind his dad’s. Stiles felt himself smile as he moved closer to its mouth and pressed his teeth in until he felt bone.

Then its teeth were pressing into his neck, its hot breath against throat. Stiles closed his eyes and went completely slack, tilting up his chin higher. The teeth readjusted in the soft meat, not even pressing hard enough to hurt, then gripping again.

The Rottweiler had nearly bitten him once. He had felt its saliva on his hand, the mugginess of its breath before he was in his mom’s arms. He was scared of dogs. They scared the hell out of him and now he wasn’t afraid at all.

“ _I see why he loves you._ ”

Stiles leaned up when it let go and pressed his forehead into the side of its face, breathing in the earth and wood smell of it. He could feel it nameless and heavy. He went from calm to sad, like whiplash. He ran his fingers through the down-soft fur behind its ear. It started to purr again and he relaxed until all he could feel was vibration.

When he woke up, he was in bed and laying in a pool of his own sweat.

***

He called in the next day, when he couldn’t pull himself out of bed for a shower. It hadn’t been this bad since Chris had come to stay with him that first night. When he did make it out of bed, it was to vomit. In a coherent moment, he remembered to bring a trashcan to his bedside so he could spout right into it. Foamy bile lined the bottom from his empty stomach.

He called his doctor around noon to get in the next day. By that evening, he was wondering if he would make it to the next day. He was tightened into a ball on his wet comforter. The minor emergency was thirty minutes away. He wouldn’t get right in. He’d have to sit hours in the waiting room and he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t even sit up straight. If it wasn’t better tomorrow, he’d go tomorrow, he promised himself again and again when the cramps in his stomach made tears run down his cheeks.

It was like a freight train all day, then around ten at night, it just eased. He didn’t trust it at first. He moved slowly when he realized he wasn’t in crippling pain. It was still there, but he could stand to go to the bathroom for the first time in hours. His hands were so slick he nearly dropped his sick bucket on the hall carpet, but he managed to dump it and make himself something to drink.

That’s what he was doing, he was drinking water in his kitchen, then he wasn’t. Then he was grabbing his keys, tucking his gun into his jeans, and dragging a hoodie on over his bare chest. He didn’t even question himself until he was pulling onto the dirt road to the Hale Preserve with the moon so bright it made the trees almost white in the dark. They stood out like skeletons against the sky as he got out in the cold and closed his door. The noise of it echoed back in the stillness, then his bare feet on the frozen dew.

The shadows of the trees fell over him, but he could still see everything with a kind of clarity that made him think he was dreaming. He would have thought so if not for the amount of sweat draining into his eyes and matting his hoodie to his body, the aches everywhere, down to his marrow.

There was so much sweat. It felt like it was raining on the inside of his throat. Salivating. He was drooling. He swallowed before it could spill out. Hot and thick. His head swam, the leaves rustled around him. The dead ones on the ground crunched. They sounded like Black Cats, crackling in chain reactions.

He didn’t know where he was going, but he had enough sense to take his gun out as he broke his way through the underbrush. Thorns tore at his hands and feet, leaving a blood trail. It smelled like pennies and he hardly questioned why he could smell it. Why he was there. What he was doing. Then he was in a clearing and a voice crept out like a snake over the ground.

“My, my, Little Red came looking for the big bad wolf again.”

Stiles jerked around, staring into the shadows as they swayed.

“Stay where you are,” he said, pulling the pistol up and overlapping his fingers around the grip. Salt and saline dripped into his eyes. “I’m a deputy with the Beacon Hills police department.”

“I know who you are.”  

A man came into a place of lighter dark and Stiles saw his face, his smile, as he squinted against the burn in his eyes. Peter. Stiles’s hands shook. His finger slipped. The gun was deafening. He heard it ricochet, then Peter was in his face, sliding it from his hand.

“You have to stop greeting me like this.”

“Get back,” Stiles said, stumbling and nearly hitting the ground. His fingertips brushed the leaves before he found his shaky balance.  

 “My little lamb, so clumsy,” Peter said, then there was a hand on the back of his shirt and a solid body against him. “Imagine my terror when I see my clumsy little lamb stumbling all alone in the woods,” he said against his ear. “Only a flashlight to guide you while you look for mangled body parts. I couldn’t stand the thought of you so fragile.”

Then Peter’s mouth was on his neck, licking at the puncture wounds. Stiles choked out a noise that came back from the tree trunks. His knees went weak and Peter’s arm was locked around his waist.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Stiles asked, stumbling to get on his feet. Peter hitched him closer.

“Wolves mate for life, did you know that?”  

A jerk passed down Stiles’s spine. His shirt was sticking to his skin, soaking through his hoodie. It had to be getting Peter’s chest wet. A noise was ripped from his throat. The thought of Peter smelling like him.

“Listen to that noise,” Peter said against his ear. “My God you’re beautiful.”

 His chest felt like it was going to explode. He pressed his shoulders back and bit into his lower lip. Peter rubbed against his ass. His fingers tightened in Stiles’s skin as a low hum built against his back.

Then Stiles’s eyes shot open and he pulled away. Peter’s hand stayed locked around his wrist.

“No, man, come on. You’re Chris’s husband.”

“But you didn’t care that he was mine?”

“I didn’t even really do anything with him.”

“You wanted to.”

 “Fuck you. This isn’t even about him,” Stiles said, raising his voice as he dragged his hand over his face again. “What the fuck did you do to me?”  

“Do you know the last stages of rabies?” Peter asked, starting to walk around him. Stiles spun to keep him in his line of sight as his head swam. “Nausea. I think I may smell vomit on your hoodie, so there’s one. Fever. I think your sweat is testament to that. Two. Agitation, anxiety, confusion? Are any of those sounding familiar? No? You do seem so calm. Hyperactivity? With your ADHD, who could tell?”

Peter took a step closer and Stiles took three back, losing his balance and hitting his tailbone on the ground.

“Excessive salivation? Are you drooling like a dog?” Peter asked, coming closer.

Stiles moved back on the ground, dead pine-needles stabbing into his hands, bending and snapping under his skin. Peter’s eyes flared in the dark as Stiles slammed against the trunk of his tree.

They were red.   

“What about hallucinations?” Peter asked quietly, coming closer. His lips wrinkled back to show long canines. They deformed his mouth, made his top lip swell. “The last, that’s the most dangerous.”

He reached out and Stiles flinched as Peter ran his hand around the nape of his neck and dug his fingertips in like he was picking up a puppy. Stiles’s legs went limp, his arms, he sagged against Peter’s hand.

“Partial paralysis,” Peter said quietly.

A noise built in the back of Stiles’s throat. Peter kneeled in front of him and dragged his nose up the side of his neck.

“Or you could be a wolf in front of his alpha for the very first time,” Peter said against his ear. “Seeking me out, so you can be anchored.”

His breath was cool against Stiles’s ear. He could smell him over the grit and sweat on his own clothes. Cold wind like at that cabin he went to with Malia once when he thought they would be forever. Salt and cold water.

“Let me see your teeth, beautiful,” Peter said before tilting up his chin.

Stiles groaned at the aching stretch of his gums in the front. One of his feet scraped in the dirt as his bloodied hands dug into the pine. His eye teeth elongated until he could feel them thick against the back of his upper lip.

“Look at those,” Peter said, brushing his thumbs against Stiles’s lips that felt swollen like Peter’s in front of him. “Perfect.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Stiles asked, but now his voice was watery.

“I made you stronger,” Peter said, stroking his face. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you powerless. Not with what you do.”

“So what am I then?”

“A wolf in a man’s skin.”

“A fucking werewolf?” Stiles asked and heard his own voice break. “You made me a fucking werewolf?”

Then he bit his lower lip until the pain rocked through his face before he slammed his head against the tree behind him. He went to do it again, then Peter’s hand was fisted in his hair.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“This isn’t real,” Stiles said, eyes still squeezed shut. Then he went to do it again. Peter squeezed his hair by the roots until it stung.

“Open your eyes, Stiles.”

He did. His eyes shot open and he couldn’t say why.

“This is all very real.”

Peter reached forward with his free hand and wiped away the blood on his lower lip. His eyes turned red again before he sucked his thumb into his mouth. A noise like rocks rolled in sandpaper started up between them as Peter closed his eyes. His fingers loosened in Stiles’s hair then he opened his eyes. They stayed red and he felt like he was falling into the center of it. The iris was moving. It was growing and he couldn’t get out of it.

That’s when Stiles’s mind gave in.

And he blacked out.


	8. Chapter 8

When Stiles woke up, Chris’s smell was so close it felt like he could touch him. Light passed over his eyelids, then again with long beats between. Someone was humming, then the radio changed and it was alternative. Then they were singing. It didn’t sound like Chris.

He opened his eyes and looked out the windshield. He was in the Tahoe. The smell of leather and vinyl mixing with dirt. Why the fuck was dirt a good thing? But it kind of was, fuck not kind of. It just was.

“Good, I was afraid you’d killed yourself.”

Peter was in the driver’s seat. He looked over and smiled, his white teeth flashed orange as they drove under a street light.

“Kidding. I’m sure I would’ve noticed,” Peter said.

Stiles stared, the handle of the door digging into his spine. The lights were gone, but he could see Peter like daylight. The truck slowed and turned. It got rougher, like they were on gravel. Shadows came in like they were passing beneath trees, but he couldn’t look away.

“If you put holes in his seats, you’re explaining it to him,” Peter said, looking out of the windshield.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“The ideas you kids get in your heads.”

Then yellow light glowed on Peter’s face. He stopped and dropped the truck into park. Stiles stayed frozen when Peter turned the ignition and stepped out.

“Are you going to just sit there?” Peter asked.

“Dude, if you’re going to kill me just do it.”

“And I would have if I was going to. Get out of the truck, Stiles,” Peter said, closing the door.

Stiles moved like he didn’t have a choice. He winced when moving meant pulling his nails from Chris’s seats. Four holes were left in the dark leather with cushioning poking out. Nails. He had dark sharp nails sticking from the tips of his fingers. He dragged his feet through pine-needle littered dirt before looking up.

Light glowed from so many windows, framed by wood and rocks. Pine trees towered behind it and around. He walked up the front steps and lingered at the top.

“Inside,” Peter said, holding the door open.

Stiles felt like he was on strings as he walked passed Peter. The foyer was bright with a rusted chandelier high above them. Peter put his hand between his shoulders and pushed him through another door, through a living room with no TV, and through another archway to a kitchen.

“What do you want to eat?”

Stiles thunked into the chair at the bar and stared at Peter as he went to the fridge.

“What…” Stiles said then shook his head. “Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” 

“Water or tea? I think we might have Coke in here somewhere.”

“I made out with your husband,” Stiles said. “A few times.”

“He’s a good fuck, isn’t he?” Peter asked, taking down a glass. He slammed it on the counter and it broke in his hand.

Stiles jumped as the noise shot pain through his skull. Peter cussed with his back to him. Stiles smelled blood then heard metallic tings as Peter threw small pieces of glass into the sink. It felt like his spine wanted to bend in half. He squeezed the counter at the feeling like he should be sinking to the ground and rolling on his back.

“I don't know,” Stiles said.

Peter leaned back against the counter and dried his hand, leaving streaks on the white fabric. His eyes were red again. They looked like cheesy horror movie material in the pot lights.

“Good.”

Then he blinked, smiled, and his eyes were blue again.

“Food? I’m sure you’re starving.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I bit you and it’s my responsibility,” Peter said, opening the fridge again and taking out a package of red meat.

“You’re crazy aren’t you? You’re asking me if I want to eat, but really you’re planning on cooking me.”

“First of all, human is gamey and I’ll have no part of it,” Peter said. “Second, like I said, if I wanted you dead, you’re pretty little face would’ve been peeled off and left on the forest floor.”

“So is this like a  _stay away from my husband or I’ll kill you_?”

“I can’t tell Christopher what to do.”

“He’s your husband.”

“If you think that’s what being married is then you’re stupider than you look,” Peter said, taking out a pan and putting it on the stove.

“Does he know what you are?”

“Does this look easy to hide?”

“Could you maybe give a straight answer?”

Peter leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest after pouring some kind of oil into the pan. The smell of garlic was thick in his nose, making it run. His head didn’t hurt as badly, though. Peter was a solid shape without any of the fuzziness.

“You are a mouthy little shit.”

“And you’re creepy as fuck.”

Peter smiled. Something in him fucking wiggled at that look. The way his skin crinkled around his eyes. The rest of him wanted to pull back. He couldn’t tell if Peter was actually amused or if he was thinking about killing him. Maybe he was amused at the thought of killing him.

“What do you really think about me?”

Stiles shook his head like a fly buzzed beside it. His mouth started to work before he could help it, his tongue going with it.

“I think you’re creepy,” he said, then he bit his tongue and shook his head again. “And pretty hot. You smell good. I think you’re the stupidest person in the world and I feel sorry for you.”

“Why do you think I’m stupid?”

“You let Chris get away.”

“He hasn’t gone anywhere,” Peter said.

Stiles looked up from the counter as Peter’s eyes flashed again. Now it was Peter’s turn to shake his head and stretch his jaw like he was trying to get rid of his teeth.

“Do you like steak?”

“Did you know I liked him when you bit me?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’d be really fucking great if you’d give me a straight answer.”

My fucking God. He was going to get himself killed. Words just flung themselves out of his mouth. He sat like a pole was shoved up his asshole to his brain, gripping the stool.

Peter shook his head, looking at Stiles’s fingernails.

“You’re explaining all these holes to him.”

“Does he know about me?” Stiles asked, like ice water had spilled in his insides.  

Peter frowned at him, arms crossed, and stared. It felt like minutes, but it couldn’t have been. His spine started wanting to bend again.

“If you think Chris is the kind of man to go around plotting peoples’ downfalls, you don’t know him at all.”

“But you’re the kind of person to do that, right? Man, fuck you-.”

Everything went hyper clear. His jaw ached, his fingertips stung. Something rolled up through him and he could taste pennies in the back of his throat. He gripped the counter and felt the stone crumble. He choked, then heaved, his whole back rocking with it. He heard Peter say something under his breath then he was gripping the back of Stiles’s neck, dragging his face up to the crook of his own.

“Breathe. Count in your head and breathe,” Peter said.

Stiles felt something moving in his body. It rolled. His insides cramped around it until he was gritting his teeth not to cry.

“I don’t want this,” Stiles said, he choked out a wet breath against Peter’s throat. “Make it stop, you did this, make it stop.”

Because not believing something was happening to him was all fine until he could literally feel it happening. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there, hadn’t been there, was trying to get out. It pushed under the bottom of his ribcage. If he looked under his shirt he was going to see it moving beneath his skin like water.

He smelled more blood and realized his nails were digging into Peter’s skin. Fear shot through his body. That other part that was twisting inside to show its underside. It couldn’t get its nails out. They were dragging down and he smelled more blood.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said through his teeth with his eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck. Don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Peter said, winding his fingers into the back of his shirt and yanking him closer.

Hugging the man, whose husband he was screwing around with. While a werewolf rolled around in his insides. He clung to Peter’s sides and his nails started to dig between his ribs. Peter grabbed his wrists and squeezed.

“Stay in one place,” Peter said like he was spitting it between his teeth.

Stiles tucked his face under Peter’s chin as another cramp rolled through him.

“What’s happening?”

His voice didn’t sound like his. It didn’t feel like his. It vibrated too much, making him cough.

“It’s trying to come out and you’re fighting it down,” Peter said.

“What am I supposed to do? It fucking hurts.”

He could feel Peter’s blood tacking to his fingertips.

Sweat was breaking out on his forehead. Vibration traveled through his chest. It didn’t sound like a guy growling, it sounded like someone let in a wolf and it was pissed. It curdled the acid further in his gut until he thought he might actually shit himself. Then Peter nosed hard against his head.

“Think about Chris,” Peter said.

He said it like he was cussing Stiles out. The thing in his body felt like its bladder was going to let loose. His neck moved by itself and tucked under Peter move fully. Something else was breathing through his nose. Tea and mint mixed with that weird smell of skin.

Peter’s hand was softer on the back of his head. Then his breath puffed against the shell of his ear, he felt the wet warmth of his tongue.

“You’re fine,” Peter said quieter.

“Don’t be mad.”

That wasn’t his voice and he was coughing again, gagging against something else in his throat.

“I’m not mad.”

His nails drew out and his cheek pushed heavily into Peter’s collarbone. Most of him was still having a grade-A freak out. He didn’t know this man. He didn’t know what was happening. There were not words to express the amount of fucked up he felt, but that other part. The skinjacker, it was laying against Peter’s chest, the low collar of his shirt and feeling his skin.

Peter’s arms slid around his shoulders and that other thing tried to push out its tongue. Stiles tried to bite it back, then he was pushed somewhere and he felt his tongue sliding out of his own mouth to lick under Peter’s jaw. The growling started again, vibrating his taste buds. It didn’t sound pissed this time. Peter brushed his nose over his cheek. When they looked at each other with only a few inches between, Stiles could see the red of his eyes hyper-clear. Peter closed his again then kissed between eyebrows.

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m sorry.”

Peter shook his head and pressed his lips harder to his skin.

“You’re fine, pup.”

Stiles skin itched all over. Cramps still ramped through him. It didn’t feel like it was over. It felt like it was the eye of a storm that was going to rip him apart. He sat to the side of his mind and felt a shadow at his eyes, touching Peter, hugging to him, and saturating both of them in Peter’s smell. If it could roll on him, Stiles thought it would.

Peter fed it. Stiles saw how red the meat was and couldn’t stop it from going into his mouth. He couldn't stop the mouthfuls that sounded wet and lefts pieces of food on the counter. Peter picked them up and put them in his own mouth. His red eyes didn’t leave as he walked behind Stiles and brushed his shoulder against him. The thing in his head made noises he didn’t think he was physically capable of.

Peter wiped his face with a wet cloth when he finished, holding his chin softly with his eyes still the color of a blood spill.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes.”

Peter led him by his shoulders like before. They went up a set of stairs off the front door then down a hallway. Stiles walked away from Peter before they reached the room. He walked into one two down and was washed with the smell of spring turning into summer when the rain starts coming in. That’s when he got closest to the controls of his body. Then he was pushed back. The window was open, above the trees, the moon was full and shinning down.

He crawled onto the unmade bed and buried his face into the pillows on the far side. The thing in him used his arms to grab one of the other pillows and hold it to his chest, while he nosed into the one under his head. Chris was all over it. His nails came out again. Feathers itched between his fingers and onto the sheets.

“You’re an overgrown cub,” Peter said still by the door.

Another of those noises Stiles couldn’t make poured out of his own throat. His teeth sank into the fabric of Chris’s pillow. Peter laughed.

“Destroy all of his pillows you want.”

Then whatever possessed him, looked right at Peter and bit into the other, the one that smelled like tea. If he had a tail, fuck it felt like one was on the verge of growing from his tailbone, it would be wagging. Peter smiled, his red eyes glowing in the dark.

“You are going to be a handful,” Peter said.

Peter said it like a come on and the thing in him, wanted to respond. It was already reaching for his clothes. He got a glimpse of what it was thinking, ass in the air, Peter over him, biting his neck. Stiles thought of Chris, how fucked that would be. What a fucking train wreck this was. Chris’s eyes, the way they lit up when he laughed in the greasy diner. It felt like he could flex his own toes again.

“Is it okay if I sleep in here?” Stiles asked.

It didn’t feel as weird. The vibrating was still there, but it was less. It actually sounded like him. Peter’s smile fell. His eyes flickered, then they were blue again.

“It’d probably be best if you did,” Peter said. “I’ll be downstairs.”

Then he closed the door and the thing in his body rolled in him like a thunderhead.

***

Stiles was asleep when the phone in Chris’s office rang. Peter went in and closed the door behind him, letting it ring twice more before taking it from the cradle.

“Hello?”

“Did you go get him?” Chris asked.

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

“Peter.”

“He’s fine. He’s in bed,” Peter said.

“Clothed in a guest bed?”

“In our bed, with few clothes.”

The line was silent. Peter squeezed his hand into a fist. The moon was hard to cope with. It was harder when Chris wasn’t physically there. It was nearly impossible when he had to listen to his voice and know how angry he was. His other half stirred under his skin and it hated him and grew like a cancer with the lunar cycle. If it could grow teeth, it would eat him from the inside out.

“He was better when he could smell you,” Peter said.

He heard Chris’s breath against the phone. He could picture him in the hotel in Colombia. He had looked up Chris’s accommodations, he knew it was the one they had stayed in when they went there on business. When Chris used to take him too.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, Christopher.”

He closed his eyes. Soothing Chris when he was upset was second nature and he still couldn’t remember the last time he had been allowed to do it.

“Did you tell him I know?”

“No.”

He could see Chris shaking his head as the silence drag out, nearly hear him pacing through the poor quality of the call. The static others couldn’t hear buzzed in his ear like bees.

“What do you want him to know?”

“I don’t know,” Chris said.

His other half was right under his skin. He could feel its fingers against the bones of his own curled around the phone. It muzzled who he was and spoke for him. If the moon was always full and it was always in control, he couldn’t help wondering if this would’ve deteriorated as far.

“What do you want me to tell him?” Peter asked.

“I want you to have not turned him.”

“It’s done. I can’t change that.”

He heard material moving and knew Chris was sitting on the bed. His head was probably in his hand. He remembered a year ago, Chris at the foot of their bed with his fingers buried in his dark hair. When Peter tried to touch him, Chris had walked passed him with the whites of his eyes turned pink and watery.

“I’m sorry.”  

“What for?” Chris asked.

Peter looked down at Chris’s desk and ran his finger over the seams on the ledge.

“I don’t like upsetting you.”

His vocal cords resonated more deeply. His face burned at sounding like such a kicked dog with the knowledge that that was exactly what was speaking through his mouth.

“I know you don’t,” Chris said.

Peter closed his eyes and hummed. Chris was never mean to that part. For years he feared it was the only piece of him Chris loved. Now he knew that was true and it made him feel like a corpse wrapped around something that deserved living more than the rest.

“Just be good to him.”

“Of course.”

The line stayed open for a moment longer. He shoved his teeth into his tongue when he felt a tickle starting in the back of his throat and knew it would come out a whine. The salt of blood pooled into the creases of his teeth. Then the static ended and perfect silence rang from the other end.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles woke up a few times during the night. He didn’t really wake up, but the thing in him rolled like an old man with a prostate the size of a plum. It would turn in against the pillows inhale hard enough to make his lungs ache. When it did that, he could get control in snippets, but the times that Peter came to check on him, he was shoved to the back of his own mind and the other half acted fucking pathetic.

It was like being stuck, watching but not able to control himself, having to feel his body move. He’d give Peter this, the guy didn’t try anything. Even when Stiles was grabbing his hand and trying to tug him onto the bed.

Peter just stood at the edge and put his hands on either side of his face. He stroked his face and the thing closed Stiles’s eyes and reveled in it until it opened his eyes again. It was needy for the deep red of Peter’s eyes. When it leaned up on his knees, Stiles was almost positive it was going to try and lick Peter’s sharp teeth, but Peter held him back, murmuring to him things that didn’t sound like words.

Once he had a half hazy memory of walking out into the backyard. It was like remembering when he was drunk, stumbling, pulling at his own clothes. He remembered coughing, because when he did it felt like things dislodged in his back. He hacked and it felt like he was trying to push something out.

He remembered hitting the ground with something heavy on his back and the thing going fucking ballistic. It snapped his jaws and he felt his lower lip being torn between his own teeth. It hung in a strip, bumping against his chin before it was healing again. The blood tacking all over his neck was the only way he knew it happened.

Through the haze, he could see Peter after he was flipped and slammed on his back. It felt like something broke. It was hard to breathe, it stung. That made the clarity come back when he breathed deeply and the sharp pains stabbed into his lungs.

“That’s it little pup,” Peter said, his own upper lip slowly lowering back over his swollen canines.

His eyes flickered in the dark between red and blue like the light bar on top of a patrol car. He could nearly hear the sirens blaring. That’s the last thing Stiles remembered until it was daylight.

***

He woke up with light burning against dark curtains. He went to roll over and pull the blankets over his eyes, then froze. It wasn’t his bed. That sure as fuck wasn’t the pillow he liked to spoon against.

Peter laid across the bed. His fingers near Stiles’s arm, his eyes closed, and his mouth barely open. Stiles shifted out of the bed, looking down at what he was wearing. His shirt was ripped and covered in blood, but his jeans were unstained, so he grabbed the first shirt from the open closet he touched.

There was a home phone in the kitchen. He’d been with it long enough last night to notice that. He went down the stairs as quietly as possible, dialing Parrish’s number into the cordless.

“Deputy Parrish,” Jordan answered on the third ring.

“It’s Stiles. I need you to come get me, like now,” he said, looking around the kitchen and trying to think. The sun was too goddamn bright. He coughed and his throat felt wrecked.

Then paper caught his eye, an envelope by some glass canisters. It was a utility bill with the address on the front. He read it off to Jordan then hung up, jogging out of the front door and down the driveway.

He pulled the bloody shirt over his head and put the other on as he ran down the driveway.  When he saw the stone mailbox at the end, he had to lean against the sticky bark of a cedar to stay on his feet.

That feeling in his stomach bumped beneath his ribs.

Fucking werewolf.

“What the fuck is going on,” he said under his breath, tilting his head back in the sun and panting.

It shouldn’t be this hot. There was ice on the puddle in the ditch. His feet were bare. But it felt like he was burning and that thing in him, it was pulling like a dog on a leash to go back the way he’d come. Blimps of Peter laying in bed filtered behind his eyes. Flashes of what it wanted with him came to.

His werewolf was a fucking skank.

The sound of a siren pierced the quiet before he heard the motor. He kept waiting to see the lights, but the seconds dragged further and further. When he could see the car, the thing made his head shake as his eardrums tingled. 

As Parrish pulled onto the gravel, he killed the sound and Stiles slid into the passenger seat.

“Argent Armory?” Parrish asked.

Stiles looked down at the shirt he’d grabbed. The one Parrish was looking at.

“Turn down the radio,” Stiles said, pressing his fingers into his eyelids.  

“It is down,” Jordan said, reversing the car out of the driveway and onto the deserted road. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Did the husband come home early?”

“Pretty much.”

“Going for single guys would probably be easier.”

“No shit,” Stiles said, cranking up the A/C and rolling down the windows.

Jordan being the good partner he was didn’t say a word. He just took him home and waited outside while Stiles got around for their shift.

He kind of remembered bleeding all over his face last night, but when he looked in the bathroom mirror, his face and neck were clean. 

After he was showered and dressed, he picked up his phone from the counter in the kitchen. The light flashed in the upper corner. A missed call from an unknown number and an email from Chris. He flicked it open and the thing was right there, looking out of his eyes.

_From Chris: That’s my number. Give me a call when you can. Be careful._

_Reply to Chris: Be careful because your goddamn husband is a werewolf that might hunt me down and drag me to your house? Thanks for the heads up._

He hit send, then walked out of the front door. The thing was fully awake and back now, bumping around his insides like gas. He pulled his over-shirt out as much as he could. The last thing he needed was someone thinking he was about to recreate Alien. But when he looked down, he didn’t see any movement, even when it kicked his insides hard enough to deflate his lungs.

When they got to the station, no one commented on him being two hours late. He and Parrish stayed out on patrols, dealing with traffic. Derek and Scott were the other car out and Derek took all the more in-depth calls before Parrish could even reach for the handset.

That was good, because sitting in the passenger seat was bad enough. The werewolf-, the thing, in his head, it made his head pulse like it was blowing air into it then sucking it out. His eyesight went sharp and dull on and off. Once he even saw the dark nails in the tips of his fingers. He curled his hand into a fist and bit the inside of his mouth. The pain seemed to work last night and it worked then.

By the time they went in towards the end of their shift, the inside of his mouth was bloodied and raw. If there was anything good about this bullshit, it was that it all seemed to heal pretty quickly, so he could bite it open, again and again when it seemed like his world was dissolving into HD.

But even when it was hyper clear, everything still seemed like a dream. Everyone was there. He talked to Jordan in the car. They ate lunch together from a drive-thru. He stared at the flashing of the cruiser’s lights in the chrome rear bumper of someone’s car they had stopped. He lost minutes that way and was swamped with guilt when Parrish dropped back in the car. If that person had pulled a gun or anything, he wouldn’t have even noticed. Everything was happening, but it felt like he was going to wake up in his own bed, maybe with Chris. Just the fact that that still sounded even remotely good made him want to set up a psyche appointment.

He blamed the other part when he was staring out of the windows, thinking about the way Chris smiled when they were at the diner. 

He entirely blamed the thing in him when he thought about Peter and the way he smelled. Like ice water and salt. Things he didn’t think had smells.

He knew it had to be a dream when he was in the break room right before their shift ended. Derek was at the fridge, taking something out then Stiles was all in his personal space. It was chanting a string in his head and the only thing he could pick out over the noise like dogs yapping was, _pack_ , over and over. The sane part of him, the real part of him, freaked the fuck out when his own tongue slid out and he licked the rim of Derek’s ear.

Before he could say anything, Derek turned and slid his arm around his back.

“Cousin.”

Derek’s voice went nearly as deep as Peter’s. When he looked at Stiles, his eyes were amber. Then he bumped his nose against the side of Stiles’s face and walked towards the door.

“Get home. I’ve seen your nails three times today,” Derek said.

Then he was gone and Stiles’s eyesight flickering enough to make him dizzy.

***

It was almost dark when he got home. The lower the sun got, the more he could feel his control slipping out of his fingers. The thing in him was fucking strange. If he didn’t feel severely violated by it, it might crack him up how weird it was.

Like, when he got home, it pulled open his blinds in the living room, sat on the floor in front of the window and stared at the sky. It didn’t turn on any lights, no radio. It just sat and stared.

When the front door came open, it jerked up like it had been waiting. He hadn’t even locked the goddamn door. It hadn’t locked it. He was pushing Peter against the door as soon as he got his hands on him. It breathed him in and that yapping noise in Stiles’s head got louder.

“Give him back some control, little love,” Peter said.

Stiles’s throat whined. Then Peter’s fingers were pushing into the back, messaging into his neck.

“Stiles?” Peter asked.

“How did you do that?” Stiles asked, pulling away from Peter as his control came back.

Peter closed the door then the tumblers rolled as he locked it.

“You ran away this morning.”

“You fucking kidnapped me.”

“So dramatic. I would’ve driven you to work.”

“Yeah right.”

“No, you’re right. Probably not, because you have little to no control and it was stupid of you to leave.”

His voice was calm and he still had a little smart ass smile, but his eyes flashed red.

Stiles turned and went down the hallway. “Don’t want to do this. I’m done with the weird. So fucking done with the weird.”

When he sat on the end of his bed, pulling off his boots, Peter leaned on the door frame.

“Oh? So what do you think you’ll do tonight? Pull the covers over your head? Wait it out?”

“Yep, so leave.”

“Funny.”

“Seriously,” Stiles said, looking up. “Get out or I’ll call the cops.”

“And what are you going to tell them?”

“That I have a creepy ass burglar.”

“They’d be confused when they show up and you’re shoving your tongue down my throat.”

He didn’t even have to ask how Peter thought that would happen, because that other part shoved forward in his head, adding all the fuel to the fire. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

“Stop making it do that.”

Peter hardly touched his hair.

“Don’t panic yourself,” Peter said.

Then he realized there was panic. It well up in his throat, but he didn’t feel like he was panicking. That other part was though. It kept sending images. Peter walking out, leaving. A wounded snarl tore out of his own throat.

“Quiet. I'm not going anywhere,” Peter said, touching his shoulder.

The bumping in his stomach got worse. His hands were fisted under his ribs. The nails pierced into his palms. His eyesight was flickering again while he stared at his socked feet against the floor.

“It’s already bad,” Stiles grunted out. “Why is it already bad?”

“The moon’s full tonight.”

“It was full last night.”

“It nearly was.”

Stiles coughed. It didn’t sound like a cough. It sounded like he was hacking out something vital. His gums started to stretch.

“You may want to take off your clothes.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

It ripped out of his throat and ended in a jagged noise. He was snarling at himself. His jaws snapped together, like he would bite the shit out of himself if he could.

“You’ll ruin them.”

“I have bigger fucking concerns right now.”  

His mouth stretched open as his teeth broke his gums.

“Oh my god, no,” Stiles said, coughing it up like a snarl that became a roar. It wasn’t a human noise. It didn’t sound like a wolf either. It didn’t sound natural.

He sank to his hands and knees on the carpet, fisting his fingers in the longer brown threads. He could smell blood.

He felt his face starting to stretch. He screamed, but it wasn’t his scream. If it was going to take over he didn’t want to be there for it. He had seen werewolf movies. It didn’t matter if they were accurate. If they were anywhere close to accurate, he didn’t want to be there for it. He wanted to blackout and be completely apart from it. Just let it have him for as long as it wanted to, whatever. He just didn’t want to be a part of it. He couldn’t. The feeling of it, it didn’t feel like his heart could handle that much panic.

Then hands were on his face. He could feel his bones shifting under Peter’s palms.

“Slowly. Don’t hurt yourself,” Peter said. “Ease yourself into it.”

He was breathing through his teeth. His eye teeth touched his lower lip, nicking it as he heaved in air. The thick brown carpet was under Peter’s knees. The hyper clarity of his vision was too sharp between the shag and denim. He could see the dirt, he could smell it with the mixture of his own sweat. He sucked in short, sharp breaths through his nose then screamed again.

The bones of his chest popped. It felt like his collarbone broke. He could see it moving, his shoulders rolling, spaces expanding. Black spots broke out over his skin then he was growing fur. His t-shirt stretched then ripped along with the thighs of his jeans.

“Make it stop!”

“It’s almost over,” Peter said.

“Peter, please,” Stiles sobbed, grabbing his arms.

Then it actually was over and he dropped his face against Peter’s shoulder. He didn’t drop his face, it dropped its face. His sense of smell was so strong. He had a motherfucking snout. It brushed against Peter’s neck, then his ear, and it was dragging its tongue under Peter’s lobe, back behind his ear. That should be fucking gross. As worn out and hurt as Stiles was huddled in his own mind, he could still think it was gross, but the overgrown dog, no, it fucking loved it. It laid back its ears and licked then down Peter’s neck, pulling Peter closer.

“You’re breath-taking,” Peter said.

Its ears heard differently. Peter was using the other voice and it rumbled. The ears picked up all the different tones. Maybe that’s what made it sound so sincere, so amazed. He laced his fingers into Stiles’s scruff and pulled him, so he would stop licking. Stiles laid his face against Peter’s chest as Peter slid his arms around his body.

Stiles was so small in himself. He watched out of its eyes like a far away window as it moved. It felt like it stripped all his energy and all he could do was linger. 

Then he wasn’t and everything was black as it completely took him over.

***

“How do you feel?”

Stiles opened his eyes and blinked at Peter. He was touching the side of his face. Gray sunlight silhouetted him.

“’M sore.”

“You will be,” Peter said, brushing his hair back.

Peter leaned down. There was enough of that shadow in Stiles’s head to keep him from pulling away. He kissed Stiles on the forehead, brushed over his nose, then kissed him on the mouth. The thing in him was smaller, quieter, but it still came forward as much as it could and Stiles was too tired to fight it. It wasn’t like he needed to. It wasn’t like Peter hadn’t been with it all night. Peter cradled his face then sucked at his lower lip.

When Peter pulled away, it tried to follow him, and Peter held it back.

“You don’t need another change,” Peter said, but his smile was cocky. Then he pushed his forehead to his. “I may not be near you for a while, but I love you little pup.”

“Don’t leave.”

Not his voice, again.

Peter kissed his cheek.

“Rest. Derek is covering your shift.”

“Derek?”

“What else is family for?” 

He kissed Stiles’s forehead again, then he was just a dark blurry shape walking down the hallway, then out of his house. The other part made a pathetic noise in his throat when the door shut.

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles mumbled, closing his eyes again and just trying to leave it all behind and sleep.

 


	10. Chapter 10

The afternoon after Peter left, Stiles sat at his desk, Peter and Chris’s background checks side-by-side on his computer screen. At the next desk, Parrish was making a follow up call to someone. He was supposed to be doing paperwork, but his eyes kept flicking from hyper to standard.

Chris was from Saint Claire, Montana.  
He graduated high school in Washington.  
Enlisted in the Marines when he was 18.  
Served for four years.  
Two years later he registered for his arms license.

He was arrested four times in twenty years.

Three of those times, Peter was arrested with him.

Only one of them had a mugshot and charges. It was the first arrest of them together. Peter was 21. Chris was 26. They both looked drunk off their asses, which lined up with the only charges on their records, _public intoxication_ and _disturbing the peace_.

Peter was from Lost City, California.  
Fifty miles from Beacon Hills.  
The town looked like nothing on Google maps.  
He graduated from the nearest town fifteen miles away.  
He married Chris less than a year after.  
He had his arms license less than two months later.

He found Peter’s family on Facebook. His two sisters, three brothers, nieces, nephews. All but three of the younger ones lived within ten miles of Lost City. He was flicking through Peter’s oldest niece’s pictures when he froze.

It was a cookout or something in a backyard that looked like a cut out from Home & Garden. They were sitting in wooden chairs, Chris’s arm around Peter’s back. Their heads were tilted together. They were smiling. They were happy.

It was barely a year before.

He felt that shadow move behind his eyes. His vision flickered and doubled for a moment, before it became hyper-clear. He closed them until his head stopped pulsing. Then he shut down the computer and stood up, nearly knocking his chair over.

“Where are you going?” Parrish asked.

“I’ll be back,” Stiles said.

When he reached the parking lot, Derek and Scott were getting out of their patrol car. He heard what they were saying. They were over half the lot away. The wind was blowing and he could still hear it. Derek telling Scott to go in, pushing him towards the back door, Scott actually listening.

Then Derek opened Stiles’s patrol car’s door and sat in the passenger side.

“Get out,” Stiles said, opening the driver side door.

“No,” Derek said.

“Hale.”

Derek stared out of the windshield before looking at him, raising his brow.

“Fine,” Stiles said, sitting inside and slamming the door.

Derek said nothing when Stiles slammed the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot, the smell of burning rubber so thick it set his head spinning again. He said nothing when Stiles got to the open highway and flipped on the lights when people got in front of them, making them pull to the side so he could blow by them. He just sat there and he said nothing while Stiles pushed the car to 120mph and the Vic shuddered, the aged dash creaking on bad roads, the divider between the front and back seats rattling. The wind noise so loud they couldn’t hear the radio when dispatch spoke.  

Finally he slowed it and hit the shoulder, the gravel peppering the undercarriage as he came to a stop.

“What the _fuck_!” Stiles said, slamming his hand on the steering wheel once, then again and again.

The light caught the black edges of the nails coming out from beneath his normal ones, his human ones. That feeling was bumping in his insides, like a bouncy ball shot into a box.

A year ago. They were happy a year ago.

That shit wasn’t faked. That look in their eyes. The way they smiled. That wasn’t faked.

But picking up a young dumbass deputy?

That was easy.

Acting like he made you happy when you hadn’t been happy, that was easy. He was a goddamn werewolf now and it was for absolutely nothing. It was never for anything, because it was in black and white.

They had been married for over twenty years.

He was nothing.

And at that moment, that somehow brought every brick down on his insides.

Derek’s hand was heavy when he touched his shoulder.

Stiles tilted his head back on the seat rest, staring at the dull brown headliner. A spot was moth eaten by the hard trim. He could see every fiber. Smell every drop of coffee that had soaked into the dirty carpet, every cigarette that had once been smoked in it. All the sweat, a little blood. He could smell every molecule of it.

“Don’t close your eyes, it makes it worse,” Derek said, rubbing so hard into his shoulder it hurt.

“How the fuck do you do this?” he asked, his chest heaving.

“You’ll get a handle on it.”

“Did he do it to you too?”

“No. I’m born into it. It’s still hard sometimes.”

Stiles could hardly hear his voice. What he could hear was his own breathing, his heart beat. It shuddered so hard. It hurt his throat. His lungs. But what he could hear of Derek’s voice, he sounded nice.

He had questions, he had a lot of them, but his tongue wouldn’t work. So he just sat there, saying nothing, the radio crackling and dispatches voice burbling out a few times until Derek flipped it off. Eventually, he started to smell heat under the bad smells. Heat like blood moving.

It was too weird. It was Derek sitting right beside him. He could almost smell his heart beating. That shouldn’t calm him down. It was too goddamn weird. Like everything about this was weird, but the panic slowly started to ebb as few cars slowed to pass the cop car on the side of the road.

Slowly he could breathe and the fibers in the headliner blurred to the standard muddy brown as the heaviness sank lower and lower in his gut.

***

After his shift ended, Stiles walked out to his car. He was about to unlock his door, when his phone rang.

“Hello?” he answered, juggling to get his keys out.

“Stiles. It’s Chris.”

Stiles froze for a moment before pulling his door open. The speaker crackled against his ear, making his head start to ache again.

“Are you there?” Chris asked.

“Yeah.”

“How are you?”

Stiles sat and slammed his door, wincing when it went straight to his head.

“Like it matters. When are you coming back?” Stiles asked.

“It does matter,” Chris said, then paused like Stiles might answer him. “Tomorrow. I’m going to come by your house. Is that okay?”

“Now you guys start asking?”

The silence started to drag. He would’ve let it. He liked the idea of Chris being uncomfortable over this, but that long distance crackle was killing his head.

“You called me, man. Speak or hang up,” Stiles said.

“Can I come by tomorrow?”

“Whatever, but if you bring him, I’ll actually shoot him this time,” Stiles said, then gritted his teeth at the acid that creeped up the back of his throat.

“Are you going to shoot me?”

“I guess that’s just the chance you take,” Stiles said, “Bye.”

He hit end and heard Chris saying something. He told himself he didn’t care as acid ate against the lining of his throat and he dropped the Jeep into drive.

***

The next day, Stiles was off, so he did the same thing he always did. He slept until ten. He laid in bed until noon, falling back to sleep, on and off, played on his phone, pulled up porn and toyed with the idea of jacking off before he got up. He took a shower, stood under the water, not really coming awake until it went cold and jolted him out of the stall. He washed a load of clothes and wore his towel around while a too large load beat the washer drum, making it thump off balance while he laid on the couch and watched TV. When the clothes were dry, he got dressed and thought of going for a run. Instead, he made himself fix his hair and laid back on the couch and he waited.

It was three when his phone vibrated on the rug beside his hand hanging off the couch.

Chris: _Can I come by in about fifteen minutes?_

_Whatever._

Stiles sat up as his stomach rolled against the cushions that smelled of Fritos.

He heard every car that passed on his quiet street, heard the neighbor across from him get out of her minivan and heard her tribe of children piling out, squealing and arguing before their front door opened and closed. The thing bumped around. It took control when he heard the low rumble of a stock V8. It tore his eyes from the TV to the front door and tried to push him to his feet when Stiles pinched the inside of his arm and it fell back.

It still tried to come forward again when the Tahoe was turned off in the driveway and the door thudded closed. He made himself sit still until Chris rang the bell. When he stood, he felt his nails catch in the threads of his couch. He cussed under his breath and went to the door, pulling it open.

“Hey.”

Stiles popped the handle so Chris could pull it open. He leaned on the door frame to keep him from coming inside.

“You cut your hair.”

“It's hot there,” Chris said.

Stiles nodded. Having it shorter made him look leaner. With the dark circles beneath his eyes, it made him look sick.

“Your husband turned me into a werewolf.”

“I know.”

Stiles stared at his feet then laughed slightly, looking passed Chris to the road. The neighbor with the cat that tracked up and down his Jeep was taking out her trash.

“That’s not something I ever thought I’d say.”

“It isn’t something I ever thought I’d hear,” Chris said with the corner of his mouth hardly turned up.

Then it was gone and they were just standing there, Chris with his hands in his pockets and Stiles with his arms braced over his chest, his heart tapping out a jagged beat behind his ribs.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You don’t trust Peter?” Stiles asked.

“Not particularly.”

“That makes two of us.”

The other part that Peter had forced on him bumped in his gut like he needed to vomit. He made a fist and wedged it beneath his diaphragm. Chris glanced down at his hand and his lips thinned.

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t really know what we’re going to talk about,” Stiles said.

“Not having things to talk about isn’t really the issue here,” Chris said. “If you don’t want to talk now that’s fine.”

Stiles nodded, looking at his own feet. It was a full minute if not longer that Chris just stood there, the heater warmed air being wasted and neither of them moving.

“Did you know?” Stiles asked, looking up. “That he was going to do that to me?”

“No.”

“Swear?”

“I swear.”

Stiles couldn’t look at Chris as he felt the panic that kept coming on him surging again. It went straight to his tear ducts until he was swallowing hard.

“You get that this is permanent, right? That what he did, it isn’t going away. I’m stuck like this for the rest of my life, and you didn’t even give me a heads up.”

“What was I supposed to say, Stiles?”

“How about my husband is a goddamn werewolf?”

“And you would’ve believed me?”

“We’ll never know now, right?”

“You wouldn’t have believed me,” Chris said.

“Then you should’ve made me.”

“You would’ve thought I was insane.”

“Then I would’ve stayed away from you.”

Now it was Chris’s turn to look away, staring at the molted algae growing thin on the house’s siding. The light caught the side of one of his eyes. It was turned nearly white and it still made Stiles’s chest tight, because pathetic or not, feelings didn’t just shut off. It’d be so much easier if they did. But he’d missed him. He had missed the sound of his voice. His face. And right now he wanted to lay him out as much as he just wanted him to hug him and tell him everything was okay.

“You were fucked from the first time he smelled you on my hands, Stiles,” Chris said. “I wasn’t honestly considering doing anything with you at that point, and it was already over.”

“Did he tell you he knew about me?” Stiles asked, angry and betrayed tears burning the edges of his eyes.

Chris shook his head. “Not until after the night at the bar.”

“Why’d he tell you then?”

Chris cleared his throat and Stiles watched color creeping beneath his eyes.

“He could smell you all over me. He thought we’d had sex.”

“Poor fucking psycho werewolf.”  

That other part slammed against his ribcage, until he had to force his fist against it again. Heat flooded up his spine and into the base of his head. The blades of grass by the front step flickered from sharp to blurry.

“Breathe through your nose, out through your mouth,” Chris said.

Stiles gritted his teeth. He had pissed it off though, it felt like it was clawing its way out of a well. A noise like a bone stuck in the garbage disposal swamped his throat, then Chris’s hand was firm around his arm.

“Breath in, 1, 2, 3,” Chris said, “Hold it until I say so.”

Stiles inhaled and held it until his lungs started to hurt.

“Easy,” Chris said. “Breathe it out. Slowly.”

“Go away.”

“Stiles.”

“Seriously,” Stiles said, looking up, still braced on the door, sweat starting to prickle his skin. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Chris stood and watched him before nodding, his lips thinning. The sun caught the short burr of his hair, his scalp visible underneath, the stubble lined along his jaw. Even in the shadow of his brow, his eyes stood out and they were guilty. Even with all the lies, he didn’t question the sincerity of that.

But It didn’t stop him from slamming the door in his face.

***

After dealing with Chris, Stiles did what he became a cop for, what he did best. He broke things down, and he started to dig. He also did the other thing he was great at, acting like everything was perfectly fine. He went to work. He talked to Scott and Parrish, he even went out for drinks with them. He went to his dad’s on Friday like always.

But on his lunch break, during downtime in the cruiser, when he went home, he researched.

He used Kira’s library accounts at the local four year college and pulled electronic copies of histories, fairy tales, nursery rhymes. He bought fresh notebooks and pens, and he filled three, writing on the pages fronts and backs.

When the sun came up Monday morning after barricading himself in through the weekend, he could’ve written a thesis. The different cultures and subcultures and their werewolf lore from Asia to the Americas. He read about the full shifters, to the skinwalkers, to stygynies, and windigos.

It was weird, but the thing living in him had one good aspect, it was a fucking lie detector. The first time he read something that was real from all the copious amounts of bullshit, he knew, because that line went so sharp on the screen it was almost painful. It was like having an English Pointer for facts living in his brain.

Of all the things he’d written down. He had two pages of real things and most of that seemed pointless.

They could do half shifts, the ones where his teeth and claws came out.  
He changed with the full moon. No shit.  
His temper was hard to control.  
They liked to live in packs.  
Traditionally the alpha created betas, which is what he assumed he was.  
Beta wolves loved their alpha wolf. It read a lot more complicated than that, issues of control and submission, but that’s what it came down to. As much as that should’ve been obvious, it felt better to see it in the research even if the people putting it together only through they were copying down urban legends.

All of it was good, all of it moved his little train of thought along, helped him get a grounding until his eyes started to catch on one word, again and again.

_Argent._

The first hundred times it stuck on it, he pushed it to the side. He was tender-hearted over a dude with the last name Argent, of course it was going to stand out to him. Then he had to translate a sentence from French to English using an electronic translator.

_Silver._

It was all over the French texts. If there were mentions of werewolves, Argent was right there next to it. He would’ve glossed over it. But it was weird that it was capitalized. Everyone knew you killed werewolves with silver. But the meaning of the words following werewolves in German, it wasn’t silver.

It was _Jäger_.

Hunter.

So he compared every translation he had. He went through them all finding the original language of the text and using the shitty electronic translator.

In Irish, _loachra_.

Warrior.

In Latin.

_Domus._

Then he started searching for Argent, the family. He started searching for Chris’s family tree. In a fueled haze of Red Bull and No Doz, he searched ancient text and he searched the police database. They weren’t easy to find, but he did. He found Chris’s mother, his father, sister, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews. More than 75% registered arms dealers. Living all over the world.

Then like it was shoved into his head, he saw Chris walking with him through the preserve the day they put the trap out. It was so clear he could see the lines around his eyes, the way they twisted that wasn’t quite humor when Stiles asked if he liked to hunt wolves.

_Some species._

It wasn’t enough to build a case on. No jury in the world would ever convict anyone for anything based on what Stiles had pulled together, but it didn’t stop every light in his head from going off until it was nearly blinding and his gut dropped.

***

Stiles walked into the diner on Tuesday, pushing his hands into his deputy jacket. When he had texted Chris to meet him, the response had come so quick it was almost pathetic. Probably as pathetic as Stiles watching his phone and trying to convince himself he was watching TV until the screen lit up.

Chris sat at the counter, hunched forward and watching the small TV set. Stiles thought about turning around and walking out a handful of times before sitting on the stool beside him.

“Hey,” Chris said.

Then his hand reached out and he had Chris’s jacket, pulling him closer, his nose buried against his neck. Chris covered his hand and squeezed, turning his face in against him. That other part sucked in a lungful then breathed it out slowly.

That other part fucking glowed, but the moon wasn’t close and Stiles’s didn’t have to put up with its bullshit. He pulled back and pushed Chris away.

“Stop,” Stiles said.

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles gripped the bar, his foot vibrating on the crossbar under the stool. “That isn’t me. It’s a fucking parasite.”

His stomach turned. It bumped in him like indigestion. His knuckles were white against the counter then a cup was in front of him being filled.

“Can I get you anything, Stiles?” the waitress asked.

“No. I’m good for now, thanks.”

When she walked away, Chris’s hand twitched towards him then dropped it to his own thigh.

“Did you want to talk?”

“I looked things up about them,” Stiles said, against the back of his fist staring at a stain beneath the Coke machine. His eyesight flicked and he could see the black ants against the dark spot. “It’s all bullshit. None of it sounds real.”

“No,” Chris said carefully. “If you want real answers you’ll have to talk to Peter.”

“Or I could ask a hunter,” Stiles said, looking at him.

Chris’s lips hardly thinned. “I can only answer so much. Can we move to a booth to talk about this?”

“Afraid of people knowing what you do?” Stiles asked. “Afraid they’ll know you’re a fucking liar too?”

Chris stood and took the back of Stiles’s neck, pulling him from the stool. The other part caught his balance on the tiles and followed after Chris like a dog on a leash.

“I’m more concerned with them calling Eichen house on you,” Chris said, leading them to the rear booth and waiting for Stiles to slide in the far side before taking the other.

Stiles took a napkin from the holder and started to tear it, his foot tapping, making the change in his pocket rattle. The coins scraped over each other, making his ears itch. He lifted to put his hand in his pocket and slapped the change on the table before starting to jiggle his foot again.

Chris touched the back of his hand. The other part pushed forward in his head and Stiles yanked back, his lips pulling back over his teeth.

“Don’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It fucking likes you,” Stiles said.

“That’s a good thing. It can help keep you calm.”

Stiles snarled. It had to be him, because the other part twisted his insides.

“I don’t want to be calm,” Stiles said, feeling the sting of his nails and curling his fingers into the meat of his palm. “I don’t have to be calm. No one told me shit. No one. You? you didn’t tell me anything. I trusted you. I probably shouldn’t have. I get that I didn’t know you long, but I fucking loved you and you knew I did.”

“I love you too.”

“You lied to me,” Stiles said. “I know nothing about you. I didn’t even know what you fucking did.”

“My family hunts, Stiles. I’m not a hunter.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m married to something I’m supposed to hunt, how well do you think that would go over in a community like that?”

“Then why are you married to him? Did he bite you?”

Chris snorted, the corner of his mouth barely rising as he looked across the diner.

“No. I loved him.”

“So you don’t love him now?”

“I didn’t say that,” Chris said, looking back to Stiles.

Stiles tightened his hands and felt his vision starting to bleed.

“Then what exactly did you think was going to happen?” Stiles asked. “Did you think I was just going to let you fuck me on the side? Did you think he was going to let that happen? Do you know what that crazy son of a bitch did? Did he tell you that?”

“We talked,” Chris said.

“Did he tell you he stalked me out to the preserve?” Stiles asked, “Yeah, apparently he did. You don’t look too shocked. Then he took me back to your fucking house. He took me back to your house and he asked me about you and me. Then you know what he did? He freaked the fuck out,” Stiles said with his voice going up and trying to bring it down again. “He broke a glass when I said we kissed. Broke a fucking glass and pulled the shards out of his goddamn hand. So please tell me, Chris, what exactly were you fucking thinking? Did you want to get me killed? I mean, because leaving out the whole turning me thing, he wasn’t going to just let me be with you. And you fucking knew that-.”

“Stiles-.”

“He knew where I lived,” Stiles said, at some point his fingers had come back out as he tapped the table top. “Chris, he knew where I fucking lived. Fucking werewolf hunter, and you pretty much set a werewolf to fucking attack me. Great fucking job.”

“Come outside.”

“No-.”

“Come outside, I’m not talking about this here,” Chris said, standing up, leaving money and walking out of the doors, the bell jingling above.

Stiles let his nails bite into his palms before he shoved himself up and followed Chris out, a few people turning to look at him that he tried to ignore. Chris stood beside his Tahoe down from the door in front of a dark hardware store front.

“What did Peter tell you?” Chris asked.

“Nothing, because he’s an asshole.”

Chris nodded, then pressed his lips together until they nearly disappeared.

“When you grabbed me at the counter earlier,” Chris said, then let out a hard exhale through his nose. “There isn’t an easy way to say this or one that doesn’t sound like a fucked up storyline, so I’m just going to say it, when Peter bit you, you became like him. He loves me. The supernatural part of him, it needs me. I anchor him. I keep him from being an animal.”

“Isn’t that just the sweetest,” Stiles said.

The knot at the back of Chris’s jaw tightened.

“It’s the same for you.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, then he shook his head. “No. Just because this thing likes you, it likes you because I like you.”

“I didn’t mean me,” Chris asked, “I mean you. That part of Peter, it anchors on you. It works in the reverse too. How you calmed down when you were with him during the full moon-.”

“Because he’s the alpha, it’s supposed to-.”

“No, Stiles. That isn’t how it works. I’ve seen betas shift for the first time before. They kill things. They try to kill people. You didn’t care about killing anything. You went straight to Peter at the preserve and you stayed with him, willingly stayed with him, without having to be tied up or caged.”

“He’s the alpha.”

“No. He’s your mate. I’m your mate.

The thing in him flashed forward like the fact finder last night. It latched on Chris’s words and he saw Chris’s eyes soften just a little bit when he felt his own sharpen.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, but it knows it. The way you got so sick unless  you were with one of us, your head stopped hurting so badly, the way it all got better, Stiles, I don’t care how good you thought being with me was, just me being there shouldn’t have helped you that way. It wouldn’t have helped you that way.”

“No.”

But the other part was pouncing around like a kid hopped up on Mountain Dew and Pixie Stix.

“Stiles, we can work through this. I’m so sorry for what’s happened. How this has all happened. I want to make it right. I want to help you through this.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” Stiles yelled.

A woman walking her dog on the other side of the street looked over at them. If it was more than a flash, she would’ve seen the teeth he could feel grazing his lower lip. See the claws, cutting into his palm. Then his back was against the Tahoe. Chris’s thumb was wedged beside his windpipe and his own hand was on Chris’s throat with Chris’s other hand pressing Stiles’s fingers into his pulse point.

Blood welled around his fingernails nicking Chris’s neck. The other thing, the fucking parasite, cowered. His stomach rolled. It started to thrash. Then Chris’s hand was over his mouth, keeping in the inhuman noises.

Stiles watched his nails disappear as the blood leaked in a thin slow stream down Chris’s neck. His tongue tingled. Then he pushed forward and it was dragging over Chris’s skin, making a hurt noise.

“Easy,” Chris said softly. “You don’t want this.”

Stiles jerked away, shoving away that over half and spitting Chris’s blood on the concrete.

“Don’t touch me.”

Chris took a step back and held up his hands.

“Come near me again and I’ll get a restraining order,” Stiles said, going towards his Jeep and wiping his sleeve over his mouth. Chris’s blood made his taste buds pop. Made his eyesight flicker, his stomach rolled as that other part tried to get at his brain. “If your fucking husband shows up, I swear to God, Chris, I’ll find a way to make him stay dead, understand?”

“Okay,” Chris said.

Stiles pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked his Jeep. He didn’t look behind him, he barely looked in his mirrors at all before he tore out and drove.

***

Peter paused in the doorway to Chris’s office, watching him where he laid on the couch. Chris’s socked feet were angled on the arm, a tumbler of scotch balanced on his chest. It had been a few hours since Chris came home from meeting with Stiles. He had only said enough to let Peter know it hadn’t gone well, then he was up the stairs, and in his office. The path was so familiar to him, Peter was surprised it wasn’t worn into the threads of the carpet.

“Can I join you?”

“I don’t care,” Chris said, with his hand over his eyes.

Peter sat on the floor and leaned back against the couch. He picked up the bottle of twenty year old scotch he bought Chris for their anniversary. The one he was sure Chris had poured down the drain if only to spite him. He should’ve known him better. No matter how angry or hurt, Chris would never believe wasting perfectly good alcohol was the answer. Not when it could be thrown down his throat instead.

“Are you in here brooding?” Peter asked, putting the bottle down.

“I don’t brood.”

“Please. You’re a few moments from a Bronte novel.”

He nearly jumped when Chris dragged his fingers back through his hair. He closed his eyes and tilted back into it.

“He hates us so much, Buck. And he should.”

His voice had grown deeper, but he remembered Chris laying on his bed in his childhood bedroom. The Jack London book open on his chest, the one Peter was supposed to be reading for his English class, III or IV, he couldn’t remember. He remembered Chris smiling, though, his jeans unbuttoned and his shirt off. How beautiful he was. How perfectly he smelled.

Peter rolled to his knees and braced himself over Chris. He still smelled nearly the same as he had then, but it had aged, grown deeper, fuller. Even still it was so unnamable him now laced with the acridness of alcohol he still made Peter’s heart beat faster.

Peter brushed his lips over Chris’s, watched his eyelids drag heavily then close. Chris’s hand laid on his forearm, not holding, but there. Chris’s lips parted and molded to his so that he could breathe in the intoxicating vapors.

Then he pulled away, cupping Chris’s stubble-covered cheek.

“I love you, Christopher.”

Chris stared at him for a moment, his eyes a latticework of red veins. He moved his hand up from Peter’s arm and pushed his fingers into the front of his hair. His fingers tightened then his jaw as he swallowed hard.

Then he let his hand drop and gently pushed Peter back, standing from the couch and going towards the door.

“Chris.”

There was a missed beat in his step before he was gone. Peter sat on the edge of the couch and pressed his face into his hands. The guilt sat heavier in his chest. It had lost its jagged edges, but pressure, more and more, grew.

He gave him time, a half hour, then he followed him down the hallway. Chris’s drunken heart was steady, his breathing even, as Peter undressed and crawled behind him. He dragged his hand up from his thigh, then up his side. All of his clothes were gone. Peter didn’t have to look to know the messy pile they would be in beside the bed, his jeans and underwear at the bottom, his t-shirt over the top. He slid his foot down and felt the lonely sock still on one of Chris’s.

Then Chris rolled in his arms. He could smell the salt lingering in his ducts. 

“It’s been a year and I still picture it. And it makes me so sick I shake.”

“I know-.”

“No you don’t,” Chris said. “You have no idea.”

Peter looked at the pale cotton beside Chris’s cheek. The pillow he had replaced long before Chris came home.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how many times I can say it.”

“It doesn't matter. We have other things to worry about." 

Peter swallowed and took one of Chris’s hand, pressing his cheek to his fingers.

“Do you hate me?”

“Sometimes,” Chris said, then shook his head when Peter looked down at the sharp pain through his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Chris sniffed then there was a moment that Peter watched the conflict beneath his skin. He saw the moment one of them won and Chris moved down so he could tuck beneath Peter’s jaw. Peter wound his arms around him, kissing the side of his face and feeling the solidness of him. He felt Chris’s limp dick against his thigh, felt it begin to harden and pushed it out of his mind with his cheek pressed to his graying hair.

“I don’t want to think about this anymore.”

Chris's breath smelled like scotch, his tears smelled of dehydration, and Peter’s other half clawed the inside of his chest bloody when Chris’s fingers tightened in his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. You can’t understand how much.”

His chest tightened and he was crushingly sorry for the scotch, and sorry for Chris coming to tears, sorry that he hated the silence and they way they moved around each other like strangers so much that sometimes he wished Chris would just break like he was now. That he would break into pieces if that is what he needed to do, that then he would allow Peter to try and help him put everything back together. It was holding on by strings that he couldn’t stand. The thin strings that anyone would believe could be broken by a breeze, but they kept holding through storm after storm and he wanted them to snap.

Then when they frayed further, like now, panic seized his heart and he wished for anything to keep them from hitting the ground. If they never fell, they couldn’t be broken, they could linger apart, stagnant and cold, but they would be near and he would rather be near than lose everything all together.

He would rather be near and silent than feel Chris crying and knowing it was caused by him.

***

The next morning, Stiles walked towards his front door with his over-shirt still unbuttoned and fastening his gun-belt when someone knocked on the door. He looked through the peephole and the shadow behind  his eyes that he hadn’t felt since his fight with Chris swarmed up to see Peter. He shoved it back and flipped the fastening over his gun, pulling it out as he answered the door, the gun drawn behind it.

Peter smiled. “Good morning, lover.”

Stiles pulled back the hammer on his pistol, letting Peter hear it.

“Lovely, you and Chris are both asshole in the morning, that should make life interesting,” Peter said, digging in his pockets. Then he pulled out a pistol clip and held it out.

Stiles stared at him until he held out his palm and Peter dropped it into it.

The brass casing of the top round glinted in the sunlight.

“These aren’t silver,” Stiles said.

“Isn’t that fortunate since silver does nothing.”

Stiles gritted his teeth and Peter stared back, the smile dipping from his lips until he was standing the same as Stiles. That fake cockiness completely gone.

“They’re wolf’s bane. If you want to kill me, those are the rounds you use.”

“Bullshit. Like you’d give those to me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Stiles clenched his jaw harder and pushed the clip into his pocket. Even with them put away, neither of their shoulders relaxed.

“I can smell the fear on you,” Peter said. “You can hide it behind anger to Chris, but you can’t hide it from me. So when you want your questions answered, you know where I’ll be.”

“What if I just want to kill you?”

“Then don’t threaten it, do it.”

His lip pulled up just enough for Stiles to think his teeth had started to drop then he was walking off the porch.

“Have a wonderful day, Stiles.”

Stiles watched him walk to a black Mercedes parked behind his Jeep before he stepped out onto his porch and locked the door. By the time he turned around, Peter was halfway down the street.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this a series and added a scene of Peter and Chris when they were young. In two or three chapters, Peter will give more of their history and I wanted this in before we got there. 
> 
> I'm trying to post once a week at least. I didn't want to throw off my schedule on here, but my schedule on Tumblr is a day behind. I'll be posting Chapter 11 there tomorrow.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is rough with edits. I know it probably will be. I'll fix them as I find them.

Days after his blow up with Chris, Stiles sat in his dad’s office after his shift. The station was quiet with only the skeleton crew working, so Stiles sat with his feet pulled up on the second chair across from his dad’s desk and drank his watery Coke.

“How have you been feeling?” the sheriff asked.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, moving his straw around.

“You were sick for a while.”

“Yeah I’m all good now. It must’ve been the flu or something.”

“Did you ever go to the doctor?”

“Come on, we’re Stilinskis we don’t go to the doctor.”

“I don’t know who you think you’re talking to. You make me go all the time.”

“The benefits of getting old, you have to get a regular finger up your butt.”

John shook his head as he took another bite of his sub, shredded lettuce falling back to the wrapper spread over his paperwork.

“I don’t know how you contain yourself. Dr. Miller’s such a sliver fox.”

“I’d like to keep this down,” John said, around his mouthful of bread. 

Stiles looked out of the open blinds of his dad’s office to the bullpen with a few rows of the florescent lights shut off. The cube bounced in a slow pattern over one of the monitors, shifting from yellow to orange, red to purple, to blue, to green, then back again. His dad’s chair creaked behind the desk before he walked around and tossed his wrapper in the trash. When he opened the door, the suctioned air hit Stiles in the nose as he inhaled.

Stiles stopped chewing the straw in his mouth and watched his dad’s back as he went down the hallway to the bathroom. The light flipped on and spilled on the wall before John closed the door.

Stiles frowned and inhaled, then outright sniffed as the shadow in his head pushed fuller against the back of his eyes. His feet thumped on the thin carpet as he pulled them from the chair and stood, going around the desk to smell his dad’s chair.

His vision started to flicker, taking in the tears in the pleather chair. His limbs started to tingle as his hands reached out without his complete approval for his dad’s jacket on the edge of the desk. He pulled it to his nose and he smelled the vinyl outside, then the soft fleece interior.

His could smell his dad’s soap, laundry detergent, the cruiser, his sweat. All the smells that he couldn’t have identified before, but made up the smell he identified with him. Then a smell under it all, mixing with it, hanging over it. It was strongest at the part that fit into his dad’s armpit. Under the faint smell of deodorant, he could smell something sharp, like the weeds he used to help his mom pull from her flower garden.

Down the hall, the bathroom door clicked open. He smelled again and put his dad’s coat down before going back to his chair.

“Are you heading out? You have an early shift,” John said as he came back in.

“Uh, yeah, I guess I probably should,” Stiles said, standing up and hugging his dad.

 “Drive safe,” John said.

“Yeah don’t stay too much later,” Stiles said, still holding on to him and inhaling quietly. He could taste the bitter smell on the back of his tongue where it met his throat. Flashes of a hospital bed crossed in his head, mixed with a prescription bottle, a chart from his high school anatomy book. They came so fast they nearly overlaid each other.

“Everything okay?” John asked, patting his back when Stiles still hadn’t pulled away.

“Yeah, everything’s good,” he asked as he breathed deeply near the curve of his dad’s neck.

It was so bitter and sharp even if it was mostly hidden by his dad’s smell of just, warm. He just smelled warm and good, like home. Stiles’s heart was suddenly beating hard behind his ribs as sweat broke over his forehead.

“Love you, Pops,” he said, pecking his cheek and patting his shoulder.

“I love you too,” John said, looking at him like he sometimes did like Stiles was confusing him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m good. What about you? How do you feel?”

John’s forehead creased slightly. “I’m fine.”

“No aches and pains? I didn’t pass off my flu? Allergies?”

The corner of his dad’s mouth hardly turned up even when the confusion didn’t leave.

“I’m fine, Stiles. Why?”

“Nothing. Good. I’m glad,” Stiles said, hugging him quickly again.

When he got home, he pulled out his computer and pulled up sense of smell with identifying illnesses. Mostly it returned cases of dogs discovering cancer in patients. He read about a woman in Indiana who learned she had liver cancer when her Collie wouldn’t stop scratching her lower back while she slept. There was a Beagle in Kansas that was taken into hospitals to sniff patients.

He read until his eyes burned and his vision kept flickering from sharp to standard as he read story after story, ones that turned out to be hoaxes and others that were true. It was nearly three am when he reached for his phone, then he put it down. It was too late to call Derek. He could call Chris, but, he pushed that away and put his phone back down, trying to ignore it existed.

***

The next day, Stiles caught Derek mid-piss in the bathrooms.

“Can we smell people who are sick?”

Derek glanced up with his eyebrows drawn. “Do you mind?”

“Can we?”

Derek shook then tucked himself into his pants. “Sometimes.”

“How do you know? How can you tell what’s wrong?”

“You have to have a good sense of smell and be used to it,” Derek said.

“Okay, go smell my dad.”

Derek frowned at him, cranking out a paper towel to dry his hands. “No thanks.”

“Derek,” he said, making himself wince when he heard the whine in it.

“No. I wouldn’t be able to tell anyway. I’m not good at it. Call Uncle Peter.”

“No fucking thank you, I don’t want that psycho around my dad.”

Derek shrugged then walked passed Stiles. “Your loss.”

The door banged shut behind him and Stiles bit his lip between his teeth.

***

The next day, Stiles was on patrol with Parrish outside of town when the radio crackled and Debbie’s voice came over the speaker.

“Black Mercedes reported going excessive speeds heading north on highway 9,” she said.

“Me and Parrish have it,” Stiles said, answering back.

Parrish slowed and hit the grass median, turning around, flipping on the lights and hitting the gas. The trees flashes by brown and dead against the blue sky.

“There he is,” Parrish said after about five minutes of bumping 120 mph. “He’s hauling.”

Stiles glanced at the speed readout on the radar mounted to the dash. It shot from _85_ mph and climbed higher and higher as Parrish urged the old V8 faster. When the Mercedes hit _145_ it started to creep away, then it started to shut down and slow

It pulled to the shoulder and Parrish pulled in behind them.

Stiles frowned at the flashing blue and red lights reflecting off the badge on the back and dark paint. Beacon Hills wasn’t large and there weren’t many people driving Black Edition AMGs.

“I’ve got this one,” Stiles said, getting out of the car as Parrish started to radio in the tag number.

The gravel shoulder crunched under his boots before he reached the pavement. He looked down the empty road before going to the driver’s side of Peter’s car where the window was already lowered.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

“145 in a 65, really?”

“Officer, I had no idea. Sometimes she feels so smooth she gets out from under me,” he said, smiling in a way that had probably gotten him out of tickets before.

“How about reckless driving and I tow your German piece of crap to the scrapyard where it belongs?”

Peter leaned back against his headrest and smiled again. Stiles reflected back at himself from the dark lenses of his glasses until Peter slid them off. He could see every shade of blue in his eyes for just a moment until he shook his head and looked away.

“I think there’s something you wanted to ask me,” Peter said.

“Nope.”

“I have nothing to do today. I can keep harassing Beacon Hills finest.”

“And I can haul your ass to jail.”

“You shouldn’t be rude to the person going out of their way to help you.”

“Yeah the same person who fucked it all up in the first place.”

Peter tilted his head back and raised his brow.

Stiles breathed out long and slow before bracing himself on the window seal.

“What’s wrong with my dad?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he has this smell under what he usually smells like,” Stiles said, wrinkling his nose before he realized he’d done it. “Like crushed ants. I know dogs can smell cancer or whatever. Can we do that?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does he have cancer?”

Peter shook his head. “I’m sure he doesn’t. He’s probably fine.”

“Probably fine? Probably fine isn’t okay.”

“Are you always this excitable?”

“It’s my dad, asshole,” Stiles said squeezing the door seal. “Don’t make me drag your ass out of that car-.”

“Stiles.”

It was one word and that pressure he sometimes felt behind his eyes snapped to the forefront. It was like it had been waiting for Peter to trigger it. Then it was there and Stiles could feel pure happiness like it was beating under his skin. When Peter smiled, a smile that lifted the fine lines around the edges of his eyes, it felt like Stiles’s heart would beat out of his chest.

“It’s so good to see you.”

Stiles’s hand did that tingle thing like they were asleep. He watched himself take Peter’s hand when Peter held it up. He laced their fingers together and squeezed softly. A low grade hum filled his body from head to feet.

“Help me, please?”

It was his vocal chords moving, his mouth moving, but it wasn’t quite his voice.

“Of course I will,” Peter said, his eyes softening when he kissed Stiles’s fingers. “I’ll come by the station.”

He brushed his cheek against Stiles’s fingers. His eyes flashes red for a split second, then he dropped his hand and Stiles pushed forward in his own head again.

“It’s fucked up when you do that.”

“It’s fucked up how you can’t use your words to speak to people,” Peter said.

“Says the guy who bit me without saying a word to me.”

Peter’s mouth turned down slightly. “I’ve told you I’m sorry.”

“Uh, no. Chris told me he was sorry.”

“I am sorry.”

Stiles shook his head and pushed off the door. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“I didn’t think it would,” Peter said, sliding his glasses back on. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Then he put the car in drive and took off. Stiles walked back to the cruiser and sat heavily in the passenger seat.

“You let him go?” Parrish asked.

“I know him,” Stiles said.

Parrish put the cruiser in gear and turned around to head back towards Beacon Hills.

“Peter Hale. That’s Chris’s husband, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said.

Parrish’s hand twisted on the steering wheel before he glanced at Stiles.

“Do we have to worry about him doing anything?”

“No, we’re good,” Stiles said, looking out the passenger side window.

When he didn’t make a move to talk anymore, Parrish turned up the radio and they drove in silence.

***

When they got back to the station, Stiles sat and tapped his pen, watching the sliver of front door he could see from his desk. It took Peter an hour. It felt like five. Stiles watched him smile and talk to the front desk before she gestured for him to come back. When Parrish saw him, he looked at Stiles with his shoulders going stiff. Stiles backed up his chair and nearly tripped over his feet.

Peter looked from his feet up to his face, a slow smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“Ah, now I understand. How was Chris supposed to resist you in uniform?” 

“Ha,” Stiles said. “Dad’s in his office.”

“I don’t think I’ll need to go in there,” Peter said, then he glanced over Stiles’s shoulder and smiled. “Sheriff.”

“Peter, nice to see you,” John said, coming over and shaking his hand.

“How are you?” Peter asked, taking his hand.

“Good. I hope Chris is well,” John said, but his eyes flicked to Stiles.

He wondered if it was weird that they could read each other that well. That he could tell that his dad was asking him if everything was okay with Peter being there. If this was something he needed help handling. His dad’s shoulders only relaxed a little bit when Stiles smiled slightly.

That acrid smell mixed with his normal dadsmell and Stiles’s heart dropped.

“He is. Thank you for asking,” Peter said. “I should be going. Stiles, it was nice to see you.”

“Yeah you too,” Stiles said.

“John,” Peter said, nodding to John before walking towards the front.

“Is everything okay?” John asked.

“Yeah it’s fine, but I have to go ask him something. I’ll be right back,” Stiles said, jogging off before his dad could say anything else.

When he got outside, Peter was a few yards from the door, going towards his car.

“Peter,” Stiles said, catching up to him. “What’s wrong with him?”

Peter stopped and turned back. “Does he have a heart condition?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean a little bit. He’s on preventatives for blood clots. Why?”

“He needs to schedule an EKG. Soon would be nice.”

Stiles felt like his chest had fallen into his stomach. He dragged his hand down his face, hearing his own breathing against his palm.

“When is it going to-,” Stiles put both hands on his face, making a cone to breathe into as his heart jack rabbited in his chest. “Oh fuck.”

“They’ll put him on heart medication, Stiles.”

“He’s already,” Stiles sucked in a deep breath and felt it shaking. “He’s already on it. It was supposed to keep him from having one.”

“Stiles,” Peter said, he reached out like he would take his shoulder, then let his hand drop. “He doesn’t smell overly sick. I’m surprised you smelled it at all. He’ll be fine.”

Stiles shook his head and took a step back. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

Peter said his name, but he kept walking back to the station, already pulling out his phone to call Melissa so maybe she could pull some strings and get John in the next day.

***

Stiles didn’t sleep. When he finally shut off his computer, he turned in bed until the sheets were twisted around his legs. Around three, he got up to use the bathroom and after, he turned on the TV in the living room and paced. He didn’t even realize what he was doing, to the kitchen for something to drink, back to get something to eat, up and down until it was six.

When the sunlight started to come through the blinds, he took it as enough of an excuse to get dressed. He walked out of his front door an hour before he had to be at work, so he went to the coffee shop and sat in the corner, trying not to get back on his phone and look up anymore stats on the rate of complications of triple bypass surgeries.

“Stiles.”

Stiles looked up from rubbing the dryness from his eyes. Chris stood near his table with a coffee in his hand.

“Hey,” he said, too tired to be pissed.

“Peter told me about John. I wanted to call, but I wasn’t sure if I should.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, rubbing his hands over his face again.

Other people talked by the counter as the morning crew came in, a mixture of cranky and too perky, the grinding of something, a blender, it all spun in his head with his hearing going suddenly sharp.

“Can I sit for a minute?”

“Knock yourself out,” Stiles said.

The chair across from his scraped back. The pressure behind his eyes throbbed, increasing the headache already rising behind his temples.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said under his breath.

“Hmm?” Chris asked, taking a drink of his coffee, and looking up with just his eyes, overly blue even in the dim lighting.

“You’re like werewolf crack. It’s annoying.”

Chris laughed slightly before he put his cup down and started to turn it on the table.

“Have you made an appointment for John?”

“Yeah. My friend’s mom got him in for an EKG today.”

“What time?”

“Three.”

Chris nodded, his fingers still twisting the cup. Something burned Stiles’s nose. It wasn’t quite a smell, not a smell like he could identify, but it made him tense.

“Are you nervous?” Stiles asked, sniffing to clear his nostrils. 

“A little bit,” Chris said.

“Well stop.”

Chris laughed slightly again, “I don’t think it works like that. I can go, though, if you want me to.”

Stiles dropped his face back into his hands, pushing his fingers back through his hair. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”

“What I want isn’t really important,” Chris said.

Stiles exhaled and leaned back, letting his hand drop to the table. “How the fuck do you two even live together? Really? He goes out of his way to be an asshole and you’re equally as annoying by being nice.”

“Peter’s not good at not being liked. So he’s more of an asshole to compensate.”

“Because that’s a great plan.”

Chris shrugged, watching out of the window. “That’s Peter.”

“Great,” Stiles said, clicking on his phone to check the time, then standing up. “I have to get to work.”

He still had thirty minutes. Chris would know that, but he just nodded and stood up, walking with Stiles out of the shop. Rain fell beyond the awning, reflecting back the streetlamps and headlights in the still dark morning.

“I know you’re still angry. You should be,” Chris said, watching an SUV pass before looking back to Stiles. “If you want us to leave you alone, just tell me, you’re well within your right. Peter and I both know that. But if you need anything from us, let us know.”

Stiles’s sense of smell ratcheted up. He could smell the exhaust of the still cold car idling at the curb, the musky water on the sidewalk, and the faint smell that he knew was Chris without going any closer. His eyesight flickered on a puddle. He didn’t look up until everything had dimmed again and all he could smell was fresh rain.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Chris nodded. “Okay.”

He looked like he wanted to touch Stiles, but he just looked at him for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. It doesn’t change anything. I know that, but I am.”

The bitter smell that wasn’t a smell started to burn his nose again with something overly sweet like rancid meat. It made his eyes prickle. Chris’s face looked sorry. He knew without asking the smell was guilt.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, looking down at the sidewalk.

“Have a good day,” Chris said, then he ducked out into the rain and walked to his Tahoe.

***

That afternoon, Stiles was all jitters. He didn’t want to go on patrol, so Derek went with Parrish and he did his and Jordan’s paperwork, watching the door for his dad to come back through. The time crept through concrete and each time the door opened, his heart jerked into his throat. When he finally saw his dad, John was going along the edge of the room, hurrying towards his office. Stiles jogged after him, reaching him as he stepped into the doorway.  

“What did they say?” Stiles asked.

His dad put his jacket over the back of his chair and his shoulders dropped a little bit before he turned back to Stiles.

“I don’t want you to freak out,” John said. “They found some blockage. It’s not bad enough to give me a heart attack, but I have to get surgery next week.”

Stiles moved his mouth, but nothing came out for a moment, then he just shook his head, his eyes already starting to burn.

“Okay. What day?”

“Stiles,” his dad said with his eyes irritated. He grabbed Stiles by his shoulder and pulled him into a tight hug. “I’ll be fine. If I thought I could’ve gotten away with just doing it without you knowing, I would’ve.”

“I would’ve killed you,” Stiles said weakly, hugging his dad closer.

They hugged for longer than usual with his dad rubbing his back in large circles between his shoulders. When he finally pulled away, John squeezed his shoulder, and smiled small.

“Melissa said she would talk you through the procedure and get any information you wanted to know.”

“I’ll just look everything up,” Stiles said, rubbing his eyes.

They sat down and John told him when the surgery was going to be, the doctor’s name, the exact name of the procedure. The he gave Stiles a pamphlet that his doctor had given him, holding it out like a peace treaty.  When Stiles got up to go, John smiled at him again.

“Everything is going to be fine with this. It isn’t even a big deal. They do these all the time.”

“Yeah I know.”  

He smiled back and hoped it was steady before he walked out. All he could think was the last time he had heard a version of that from his dad’s mouth and before that surgery was over he had lost his mom.

***

When Stiles got home, he started pacing again. He poured bleach and water on his bathroom floor and cleaned on his hands and knees with the liquid seeping through the knees of his jeans and burning his skin. The shower water after made his raw hands sting as he scrubbed the plastic tub shower combination. The chemicals made his nose hurt until the shadow in his head was crowding so far into the back Stiles could almost convince himself it wasn’t there. It also kept the panic attack he could feel brewing at bay.

After he got out, he moved on to the kitchen, then the living room, then did all of his laundry. When the dryer was turning with his last load of clothes, he stood in the clean hallway of his house and patted his fingers against his thigh. The pressure against his chest started to settle heavier, like a cat made of rocks, each second it started to grow heavier.

He went for his phone like Scott would run for an inhaler and scrolled through his contacts as he glanced at the time. Scott had an early shift tomorrow. That marked him off. Parrish had just spent the afternoon listening to Stiles’s anxiety. When he hit Chris’s name, he pressed it before he could think about it. The phone rang against his ear while he sat on the end of his bed. It rang long enough that Stiles thought it would go to voicemail. Then Chris answered.

“Stiles, hey.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, squeezing his eyes closed.

He could remember when he went with Scott to summer camp when he was eight. When he called his mom and heard her voice the end of the first week, he had been fine, happy, then just her voice, that’s what it took to realize how much he missed her.

“Stiles?”

Stiles inhaled. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Are you okay?”

Stiles thought of saying yes. It was on his tongue, but it didn’t come out.

“He’s having surgery. Could you, could we meet up somewhere? I need to get out of the house.”

The line was quiet for a moment, but he could still hear Chris’s even breathing. It was three cycles of inhales and exhales before he spoke.

“Of course. It sounds like you might need something heavier than carbs.”

“Yeah definitely,” Stiles shook his head, but made himself breathe through his nose and hold it as he counted in his head. “I don’t want to talk about anything. I just want to get a drink or something.”

“We don’t have to talk.”

“Meet me at the bar in half an hour?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you there.”

They hung up and Stiles pushed himself off the bed before he could twist in his own thoughts anymore.

He was ten minutes early, but Chris was already at the bar. The pressure on his eyes increased for a moment, taking in the stooped line of Chris’s shoulders and the way his finger was drawing through a line of condensation, the noise of the few tables of people talking in the corner, the radio playing quietly through busted speakers.

“Hey,” Stiles said.

Chris looked up and smiled. “Evening.”

Stiles ordered his drink with a shot of whiskey. He tossed back the shot and winced hard before chasing it with the beer.

“God I hate that.”

“They had other things you could’ve ordered.”

“Smart ass.”

Chris smiled slightly.

The water he was drawing in was beading on the beaten wood. It reflected the dim lights.

“What did they find out today?” Chris asked.

“He has blockage,” Stiles said, looking away from Chris’s fingers to try and make his eyes go back to normal. “They’re doing a bypass next week.”

“He’s going to be fine.”

“I really wish people would stop fucking saying that,” Stiles said, taking another drink of his beer. “I get it. It’s nice and all, but you’re all speaking out of your asses. You don’t know that he’s going to be fine.”

Chris dried his fingers on his jeans. “That’s true, I guess, but you can’t know something bad is going to happen.”

Stiles shook his head and took another deep drink. “So what did I drag you away from?”

“Nothing. I was doing some work.”

“Anything exciting?”

“Just emails.”

Stiles groaned and let his head fall back on his neck. “Come on, man. You’re supposed to distract me.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Talk. Tell me something riveting.”

“Riveting,” Chris said, like he was considering it as he flagged down the bartender and got a pitcher of beer. “Or we could play pool,” he said, standing up.

“I’ll play if you figure out something cool to tell me.”

“Okay. If you win. I’ll tell you something. Deal?”

“Deal,” Stiles said, getting to his feet and following Chris to one of the two empty pool tables.

It wasn’t weird to be around Chris. Drinking four beers in under an hour helped, having something to focus on helped more, and Chris drinking to relax helped too. It was too easy to laugh to with him, in the back of his head, Stiles could recognize that, but he took it for a while. It wouldn’t hurt anything to just relax for a little while, to not worry about the fact that his eyes kept snapping to attention on Chris’s face and body, and his ears almost hurt at how much sound they took in when he laughed.

“Tell me about something you hunted,” Stiles said, nursing his fifth glass.

“You didn’t win, weren’t those the rules?” Chris asked, leaning back against the table with the pool stick between his legs.

“Yeah, but I think you kind of owe me,” Stiles said, standing too close to Chris, but he didn’t take a step back.

Chris snorted quietly the corner of his mouth turning up. “I guess.”

“Husband. Turned. Me. Into. Werewolf.”

“Fine,” Chris said. He smiled, but it looked tight and Stiles wanted to kick himself in his own balls. He was pissed about it, but he didn’t want to make Chris upset right then. Anything heavy felt like the stone cat was back on his chest. So he took a step closer and dropped his forehead against Chris’s shoulder.

“Come on. You have to have some cool ones,” he said, putting his hand on Chris’s shoulder, feeling his warm skin through the green denim of his shirt.

Chris put his hand on Stiles’s hip and looked away as he started to talk.

“I hunted a witch once, when I was twenty or so. I was stationed in Korea and I caught her trail so I thought I would poke around.”

“What happened?”

“She kicked my ass, so hard,” Chris said.

“What did she do?”

“She cursed me until I promised I’d leave her alone.”

“What was the curse?”

Chris laughed and stared at the ceiling. “She, uh, she took some length.”

With Stiles beer haze it took him a moment, then he laughed, leaning off of Chris, but still standing between his spread legs.

“No. Oh God that sucks. How much?”

“Enough to put me at around two inches rock hard.”

Stiles laughed then he stopped short and looked back to Chris who was watching him with a small smile.

“She fixed it back, right?”

Chris huffed a laugh. “Yes, Stiles.”

“Good,” Stiles said, then shook his head. “Not that I’m worried about your dick size, because I’m not.”

“No of course not,” Chris said, but his eyes were bright and Stiles could smell something earthy and deep under the air freshener and spilled alcohol.

It was one of the non-identity smells, but the mental images supplied from the pressure behind his eyes were enough. He was too drunk to step back, even when he knew distantly that he should.

Chris straightened first. He took Stiles’s arm and led him over to one of the tables before he went to the bar. When he came back, he had a pitcher of water. A handful of minutes later, two overly greasy burgers were put in front of them with limp French fries.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, around warm potato and salt.

“Mhm,” Chris said, biting into his own.

When their plates were empty, they were some of the only people left in the bar and Stiles’s tipsy high was fading to the heaviness in his chest as he watched the bartender wiping things down and straightening them.  Before he said anything, Chris reached behind him on the circle booth and rubbed his neck.

“Try not to work yourself up.”

“My mom died from complications with anesthesia, did you know that?” Stiles asked.

Chris frowned with the pity Stiles normally hated in his eyes.

“You’ve told me it was during surgery.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, wiping at the bottom of his nose and looking down at his lap. “She had low stage cancer in her ovaries and she opted for a hysterectomy, because she didn’t want any more kids and she didn’t want to have to deal with worrying about the cancer coming back.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. I even went to school, because her and dad weren’t worried about it. Then he came to get me at noon and he just sat in the car when I got in. He didn’t have to say anything. You don’t get into a car with someone looking like that and not know what they have to say.”

Chris kept rubbing the back of his neck then kissed his temple. Stiles was drunk enough and sad enough to lean into it and just to feel the warmth.

 “If something happens to him, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You can’t think like that. You’ll drive yourself crazy before anything happens,” Chris said softly.  

Stiles laughed humorlessly. “Easier said than done.”

“I know.”

They only stayed a half hour longer until the bartender started to look around, counting heads and thinking of making last call. Chris walked out with Stiles then offered him a ride home when Stiles told him he walked. Then when they got to his house, Chris walked him to the front door and undid the lock when Stiles’s hands were shaking.

“Are you okay?” Chris asked.

“I’m fine. Just drinking,” Stiles lied.

Chris squeezed his upper arm. “Do you want me to stay a while?”

Stiles shook his head and looked down to keep Chris from seeing his eyes and knowing he was lying. He wouldn’t want him there in the morning. Not when he didn’t have the alternating light and heavy moments, but he would cut off his left arm to have Chris lay down with him like he did those few nights when he was sick. When he was changing. When it was just the start of cheating and now Stiles wanted to laugh at himself for how he  had worked himself up over that situation when this was his life now.

“No, go home. I’m not going to keep you from going home.”

“Peter knows you’re upset.”

Stiles shook his head and stepped inside before turning back to Chris. “Thanks for going out and keeping me busy, but just go home, okay?”

Chris pressed his lips but nodded. “Okay. Sleep well.”

Stiles nodded and stood there a moment longer, looking at Chris’s boots before he met his eyes again.

“Night.”

“Goodnight,” Chris said and walked off the porch toward the driveway.

Stiles closed the door after him and locked it before he went back to his room, popped a half a valium and crawled into bed.

***

The week passed too fast and slow at the same time. He watched his dad like a hawk and John had the heart not to tell him to leave him alone. He let Stiles bring him salad every day for lunch. He put up with Stiles making him dinner, either fresh or leaving it in the fridge for him to heat up when he came home. Stiles made meal plans for when John got out of the hospital after the procedure. He went to the grocery store every day and bought the freshest produce, leaving apples and bananas on John’s desk and stealing the chips and Little Debbies from his top desk drawer with the false bottom and giving them all to Scott.

Then the nights were too fast. Every night ticked closer to the surgery and every time Stiles had mini panic attacks as he laid in bed and thought of holding his mom’s stiff cold hand in the hospital morgue before they took her to the funeral home. He remembered his mom’s sister laying out dresses on his parents’ bed, talking to their neighbor about which one would be best to bury her in.

It was two days after the bar when he was laying in bed, that he started thinking of what he would bury his dad in. That’s when he grabbed his phone and texted Chris.

_Are u awake?_

He laid in the dark and through about his breathing. Easy in and slower out. Chris’s reply came within a few minutes.

Chris: _Yes. What’s up?_

Stiles hit call and Chris picked up on the first ring and talked to him until he was calmer. Then he told him to take a valium and stayed on the phone with him until his eyes started to get heavy. He heard Peter in the background once and the steady pressure behind his eyes snapped forward and his hearing became unbearably sharp.

“Tell Peter,” Stiles said, rubbing into his closed eyes with his tongue heavy and lazy. “I'm not sure. Just tell him something. This thing, bugging the fuck out. Going crazy.”

“Stiles says hi,” Chris said slightly muffled. “Peter,” he warned then the phone crackled.

“Hello, dear.”

The constant pressure in his head when he talked to Chris snapped forward harder until Stiles could feel it tickling his throat, right under his skin.

“Hey.”

“And you came out to talk to me,” Peter said. Stiles could hear the smile in his voice, even if it sounded condescending. “Are you under the influence, Stiles?”

He heard Chris’s voice in the background. “Valium.”

“Ah, now I see how you got to come out,” Peter said. “How are you, little love?”

“Stressed,” Stiles said, his throat vibrating hard and being way too honest for his comfort, but the shadow in his head was nearly obscuring his vision as he spoke with his vocal chords.

It was like listening through cotton, but he heard Peter tell him everything was going to be okay in a soothing voice that still held the edge of humor. He recited stats, ones that Stiles knew, that the other half knew, but he felt it relaxing. He felt himself relaxing and couldn’t say if was the medication and being on the brink of passing out or if it was just Peter.

“Sleep well, I’ll tell Chris goodnight for you,” Peter said when Stiles’s eyelids were nearly closed.

“Thanks,” Stiles said in his floaty place he didn’t know if it was more the other half or him speaking. “Night.”

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Peter said then the line disconnected.

He was asleep before he even put his phone on the bedside table.

They didn’t meet up again, but he talked on the phone with Chris nightly and texted him occasionally during the day when Chris checked in on him. It was easy to slide back into that rhythm. Easy enough to block out that they still had a lot of shit to deal with, that they weren’t okay, but until everything with his dad was sorted out, he was more than happy to have something to take his mind off of it. Chris owed him that at least.

Peter didn’t get back on the phone with him, but the pressure in his skull was harder when he talked to Chris after that, like a dog waiting to hear a whistle. He could feel it made the thing happy to hear Chris, but he felt the disappointment it had when he hung up each night without hearing from Peter. It was such an innocent feeling emotion, like a dog watching its owner through the windows pass by the front door. In his drug induced stupor, he almost felt bad about it. 

The night before the surgery, Stiles cooked his dad dinner after working his own shift, then he got kicked out before seven when John said he needed to get some sleep.

“Okay, but I’ll be here at eight to pick you up,” Stiles said.

“Okay,” John agreed, hugging him. “Go get some sleep.”

“Yeah right.”

John squeezed him. “Humor me. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Stiles said, pressing his forehead against the top of his dad’s shoulder before pulling away and trying to not let his mind go in melodramatic directions. “See you in the morning.”

“Sounds good.”

 As soon as he sat in his Jeep, the thought of going home right then was too much, the dark rooms, the quietness. Then flashing images popped in front of his eyes. Chris’s house, then Chris, then Peter in tight fast blips, the sporadic image clusters he was beginning to get used to from the growth in his head.  

He thought of going home again and shook his head. He would turn himself inside out. He pulled out his phone and called Chris, who he answered on the second ring.

“Could I come over?”

“Yeah, of course,” Chris said. “I’m just starting dinner.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said.

When he knocked on Chris’s front door twenty minutes later, Peter pulled it open. He smiled his wide smile that made Stiles feel like he was a rabbit whose hidey hole was too far away. It made that other half feel like it couldn’t get on its back soon enough as mental images ghosted through his head.

“Hi,” Stiles said.

“Good evening,” Peter said. “Come in.”

Stiles stepped passed Peter into the foyer.

“Christopher, your boyfriend’s here,” Peter called into the house.

“You’re a weird dude,” Stiles said, taking off his jacket when Peter gestured for it and hung it on the hook.

“Come into the kitchen,” Chris called.

Stiles stomach felt tight as he walked down the hall beside the stairs with Peter behind him. It felt like being herded. That rabbit instinct reached higher. He wondered if Peter could hear how fast his heart was beating.

When they stepped into the kitchen, Peter’s fingers grazed his lower back as he slipped by him even though the doorway was plenty wide for them not to have touched. Chris stood at the stove flipping something in a skillet when he looked back at him. He smiled and some of the tightness faded, then it was back when he wondered if Peter could hear or smell the relief on him.

“Hey,” Chris said.

“Hi,” Stiles said, taking one of the stools at the island. “Thanks for letting me invite myself over.”

“Anytime,” Chris said, opening the spice cabinet and digging through it. “You like beef, right?”

“How many burgers have you seen me eat?”

“Ah, right,” Chris said.

Peter closed a drawer beside the fridge and Stiles watched him push a corkscrew into top of a bottle of wine.

“Do you like merlot?” Peter asked.

“Yeah that’s fine,” Stiles said.

“Let me see some of that,” Chris said.

“You are not using my wine for that,” Peter said.

“Just give it here.”

Peter rolled his eyes as he pulled out the cork, but he handed it off and Chris dumped some into the skillet, making steam hiss into the hood vent. Before he handed it back, he took a long drink. Stiles watched his throat move as he swallowed. Heat crawled into his face when he remembered where he was and that Peter was right there. He didn’t have to worry though, because Peter was staring at Chris too intently to notice.

“Thank you,” Chris said, handing it back without looking away from what he was doing.

“Animal,” Peter said, but he lifted the bottle and took a drink.

Stiles rolled his lips between his teeth, licking the back.

“Are you a germaphobe, Stiles?” Peter asked.

“No. It’s cool.”

“Good,” Peter said, pouring three glasses and pushing one across to Stiles.

Stiles had to fight the urge to take the bottle from him and drink straight from the mouth. Instead, he took a healthy drink then wrinkled his lip at the bitterness. Peter smiled at him.

“Is it too dry?”

“No. I’m just not a big wine drinker.”

Chris put a top on the pan and came over to the island. He surprised Stiles by putting his arm around his shoulders from behind, squeezing briefly.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said.

 Then he went to a cabinet and took down plates. Peter opened a drawer and laid silverware on the bar before making glasses of ice. Stiles watched them moving around the kitchen. It was weird watching two people move around in their own house. It was weird seeing them together with the backhanded comments he had heard from both of them. They didn’t move like there was tension though. When Peter had to pass behind the stove where Chris was back to cooking, he passed a hand over the small of Chris’s back and neither seemed to notice it.

The conversation he had with Chris before he left for Colombia played in his head, but he tried to force it down for the night. The conversation about how Chris couldn’t leave him, but he could be there for Stiles, the conversation where he told Stiles he wasn’t happy with Peter anymore. Still a pit of unease opened in his gut. Not so much jealousy, he didn’t think so, it was there with the rest of it, but it was less.

He jumped when he felt Peter’s hand on his upper back.

“Don’t think so much, you’ll hurt yourself,” Peter said, pushing his half glass of wine towards him.

“Not thinking probably got me into this,” Stiles mumbled, but he drank from his glass.

“Then don’t break your streak now,” Peter said.

Eating wasn’t as awkward as Stiles was worried it could be. They ate at the bar with Peter at the end to Stiles’s right and Chris beside him on his left. It helped that Peter kept filling their glasses and neither he nor Chris complained about it.

“What time is his surgery?” Chris asked.

“Ten, but I have to have him up there at 8:30 for prep and stuff.”

“Do you want me to come and wait with you?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I asked if you wanted me to,” Chris said.

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” Stiles said. He wanted to say yes, but he could feel Peter to his other side and it felt awkward to accept.

When they finished eating, Stiles was slightly tipsy and feeling as good as he could, as long as he didn’t think about the next day or the fact that he was hanging out with the guy he kind of sort of cheated with and that dude’s husband, who turned him into a werewolf.

Stiles followed them into the living room and sat on the sectional with Chris a cushion away and Peter on the curved end.

“Christopher, if you touch that remote I’ll break your hand,” Peter said, pulling open the drawer on the coffee table.

Chris grunted and tossed the remote he had picked up on the cushion between him and Stiles.

Stiles laughed. “You listen so good.”

“If I turned it on, he’d just bitch until I couldn’t hear it anyway,” Chris said.

“You poor put upon man. I don’t know how you cope with someone wanting to spend time with you,” Peter said, pulling out a tin of poker chips and a deck of cards.

Chris snorted, but Stiles’s smile felt stiff as Peter started to shuffle the cards.

“Circle up, kids. We’re playing Texas Hold ‘Em,” Peter said, dealing out two cards face down.

“What are we betting?” Stiles asked.

“Did you bring cash?” Peter asked.

“No and even if I did, I wouldn’t play poker against either of you.”

“Don’t be a party pooper,” Peter said. “And that’s fine. We’ll just play strip poker.”

“Uh, no because then I’d be naked and you might be missing a sock,” Stiles said, then coughed at himself and the wine making him feel light enough to joke.

“It isn’t like we’d let you stay naked alone for long,” Peter said, smiling.

The pressure in his head increased. His eye sight shifted and Peter laughed.

“That is too sweet,” Peter said.

“Peter,” Chris warned.

“Fine,” Peter said, dealing the rest of the cards. “We’ll just use the chips.”

The first round went okay. Stiles had forgotten some of the rules, but Chris sat closer and talked him through it, then the second round.

“No, enough. If he doesn’t have it now he’ll pick it up as we play,” Peter said, when Chris started to help Stiles again on the third round.

“Yeah, I’ll figure it out,” Stiles said, taking another drink of wine. “I used to play with my dad and Scott. It’ll come back.”

“The sheriff played poker with his son, how charming,” Peter said, dealing out the cards.

“We made bets out of Warheads.”

“High stakes,” Chris said, looking down at his own cards.

“The one who lost the most had to eat five lemon ones at once.”

Peter laughed. “How cruel.”

“Yeah, kids are assholes,” Stiles said.

“Okay, bets boys,” Peter said.

Chris put in two hundred dollar chips and Stiles put in matching. Peter snorted and put in the same. Then he dealt the next three in the center of the table face up.

“Bets?”

Chris put in a ten dollar chip. Stiles put in two more. Peter put in a hundred dollar token.

“Cocky,” Stiles said.

“I have a good hand,” Peter said, but he glanced up at Chris.

The corner of Chris’s mouth turned up, but he didn’t say anything. Peter dealt another row of three cards. Chris put in a hundred dollar coin, Stiles put in a ten dollar piece, and Peter dropped another hundred dollar token.

Peter dealt another three then Chris picked up his stack of hundred dollar tokens and pushed them in.

“Oh, hard ass,” Stiles said, putting in two ten dollar tokens.

“Confident, Christopher?” Peter asked.

“I just put in five hundred. What do you think?” Chris asked.

Peter stared at Chris for a moment, then the corner of his mouth turned up. “I fold.”

“Good idea,” Chris said, putting down a pair of kings next to another king on one of the community rows.

“Stiles, tell me you had a pair of aces,” Peter said.

“Nope. Two of spades and a five of hearts.”

“Dammit,” Peter said.

Chris laughed and took the pot. “Don’t be a sore loser, Peter. You wanted to play.”

Stiles played with them for another three rounds, but his hands were shit, and mostly he just watched them. They got into long seconds of staring matches between bets. He could hear both of their hearts beating steadily even when it turned out one of them was lying between their teeth. If he wasn’t so drunk, it might make him uncomfortable or jealous, but he was tipsy enough to get caught up in it.

Peter won twice, Chris won once.

They were on another hand, the second hand of a community deal when the betting came to Peter.

“If Chris or I win, I bet that you let us come to the hospital with you tomorrow,” Peter said, looking at Stiles.

Stiles glanced down at his hand. He shuffled them around, then glanced at Chris, who shrugged.

“You can say no,” Chris said.

“Fine, that works,” Stiles said, looking back at Peter.

Peter smiled and laid down his cards. “Two pair.”

Stiles smiled wider. “Straight, sucker.”

Peter’s smile started to drop then Chris clapped Stiles on the shoulder.

“Sorry, pal,” Chris said, laying out a flush then standing up with his beer bottle.

Peter laughed and gripped Chris’s hand when he passed. Chris was smiling around his beer bottle as he went into the kitchen.

“You guys fucking suck,” Stiles said.

“I know it will be terrible to have people there to keep you for worrying yourself into a fit,” Peter said.

“Do either of you want a beer?” Chris called from the kitchen.

“Both of us,” Peter called back.

They played a few more hands and Chris put more food in front of him before Peter smelled his breath and said he was okay to drive home. At the door, the pressure in Stiles’s head increased and he let it. He let his eyes shift and take in all the details in Chris’s face before he let himself hug him. Chris put his arms around him and squeezed.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” Stiles said.

“Any time,” Chris said.

When he pulled away, Peter was standing at the end of the short foyer. Stiles held out his hand and Peter smirked slightly before shaking it.

“Thanks. I would’ve driven myself crazy at the house.”

“I’m glad we could help,” Peter said.

Stiles smiled faintly then he made himself walk out before his other half could get any more adamant about hugging Peter too. The guy was funny. He’d made him laugh more than a few times when he was tipsy, but that was more than he was willing to deal with tonight. By the time he got home, he dropped into bed and slept without having to take anything.

***

The next morning, Stiles sat beside his dad where his dad was already in a hospital gown. When Stiles took his hand, he just smiled slightly and squeezed back.

“It’ll be over before you know it,” John said.

“I’m supposed to be telling you that.”

“No you’re alright,” John said.

After they took his dad back for prep, Stiles sat in the waiting room, tapping his foot on the cream speckled tile as the TV played in the corner. Some kid was watching Disney Channel. He had forgotten his headphones. The chatter was driving him insane as he gnawed at his thumbnail, catching the skin under it.

“Stiles.”

Stiles looked up and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he saw Chris. He stood up and hugged him. Chris hugged him back, the bag slung over his shoulder bumping against Stiles’s thigh.

“You okay?” Chris asked.

“I’m alright,” Stiles said then he glanced down the hallways to Chris’s back. “Is Peter coming?”

“He’s getting the coffee then parking the car. What do you want from there?”

“Something with an extra shot of espresso and chocolate,” Chris pulled out his phone and texted Peter before putting his phone back in his pocket. “How long ago did they take him back?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Did they have any kind of estimate on how long it would take?”

“The doctor said a few hours from the time they wheel him in until I can see him, but on the internet it said it could take up to four.”

Chris squeezed his shoulder before sitting down. Stiles sat beside him and glanced at the bag by Chris’s feet.

“Hitting the gym?”

Chris unzipped the bag and pulled open the thin top. “In case you needed something to distract you.”

Chris’s laptop was inside with a crossword book, a pack of pens, a Clancy and a Stephen King novel.

“The deck of cards is in there somewhere,” Chris said.

Stiles smiled, leaning back in his chair.

“You’re such a mom.”

Chris huffed a laugh before zipping the bag back up and pushing it under the chair. “More like I know how you fidget.”

“BS,” Stiles said.

“Yeah, like that,” Chris said, pushing Stiles’s hand away from his mouth where he had started to chew on his thumbnail again. “Did you want something out of there to keep you busy?”

“No. If I get on the internet I’m just going to look up death rates again and I can’t read right now, too jittery.”

“What about this?” Chris asked, digging in a side pocket.

Stiles smiled and took the Rubix Cube. “Sweet. I had one of these in high school.”

“Did you ever finish it?” Chris asked, leaning back to watch as Stiles started to twist the different levels.

“Yeah a few times. Have you ever finished this one?” Stiles asked, seeing the dog-eared edges of the stickers in a few places and the white ones that had started to yellow.

“A few times.”

“And how many times did you chunk it across the room?” Stiles asked as he watched his own hands.

Chris smiled. “A few times.”

Stiles leaned forward on his elbows and cranked the shifting plastic. His dad giving him one when he was thirteen. He had heard from someone or read somewhere that they could be good for keeping an overactive kid calm. 

Chris shifted through the bag again, cardboard and plastic tore, then he sat back in his chair with the crossword book.

“Look how domestic.”

Stiles glanced up at Peter coming in from the hallway with a drink holder of coffee.

He gave them their drinks then pulled up one of the chairs across the aisle to sit across from them. He reached between Chris’s legs and grabbed the bag, pulling it between them.

“You have the worst taste in books,” Peter said.

“You have books on my computer,” Chris said.

Peter pushed Chris’s bag back under the chair and watched Stiles. “How can you two do those? Can’t you feel the minutes ticking off your life?”

Stiles mixed up the sides again and gave it to Peter.

“There, do it.”

“Fine,” Peter said, cranking it back and forth.

Stiles drank his coffee and watched Peter’s smile drop slightly then his eyebrows drawing closer together.

“Aw it’s like giving a puppy a chew toy,” Stiles said.

“You should see him with his red ball,” Chris said.

Peter glanced at Chris and his eyes flashed red. “Every part of me resents that.”

Stiles felt his spine tighten and mental images flashed of turning on his back and tilting up his chin. He almost missed Chris smiling.

“Poor Buck.”

Peter growled quietly and went back to twisting the cube. “The next moon when your shoes get pissed on, know you brought it on yourself.”

Peter kept turning the cube for another five minutes then tossed it into Stiles’s lap.

“That’s ridiculous. Take your stupid game,” Peter said.

Stiles snorted and went back to fixing the mess Peter had made. Chris had taken out one of the books, but only seemed to be thumbing through it. Peter took out his phone and they sat quietly for a while until Stiles’s mind started to wander, then Chris rubbed the back of his neck without looking up from his book.

“Stiles, who do you like to read?” Peter asked.

“Uh, I like King, actually.”

“Ha,” Chris said, towards Peter.

“But not that book.” Stiles said.

Peter smiled at Chris.

“You?” Stiles asked.

They talked about books, then they talked about movies. They argued about who was the best Batman, and Chris just snorted at them when they both got into, leaning towards each other and getting more and more adamant.

“There is no way that Val Kilmer is better than Christian Bale. No fucking way,” Stiles said.

“Christian Bale is a glorified pretty boy,” Peter said.

Stiles sputtered. “No. How much crack did you smoke before you came in here?”

“He’s in love with Christian Bale,” Chris said, glancing at Stiles.

“You traitor,” Peter said.

“He was about to explode,” Chris said.

After that Stiles didn’t trust when Peter argued with him. He took the opposite stance with him on everything. Stiles liked the Mets so Peter popped off Red Soxs stats. He liked BMW, so Peter quoted all the angles that Mercedes was better. When the doctor came out to talk to him, they were mid argument over Android versus iPhone.

Stiles tripped over himself to stand up and go to the doctor.

“Your dad’s doing fine. He’ll be moved to his room as soon as he’s a little more awake. The surgery went great, we didn’t have any complications.”

Stiles hugged him, then pulled away, like he’d been shocked. The doctor smiled slightly like he got it fairly often.

“Thanks. Really. That’s awesome.”

The doctor smiled again. “I’ll have a nurse come get you when he’s out.”

Stiles thanked him again before going to sit back with Peter and Chris. He told them what the doctor had said and Chris hugged him from the side and Peter squeezed his knee. He let out what felt like his first full breath since he smelled the bitterness under his dad’s smell and closed his eyes with the cube in his hands, turning it slightly.

Peter and Chris sat with him until the nurse came to get him, then Chris hugged him and Stiles hugged him back hard. Peter held out his hand, but Stiles hugged him one-armed.

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” Peter said, patting his back.

His dad was barely awake when Stiles walked in, enough to smile loopy and big before Stiles hugged him. John rubbed his back tiredly.

“Told you it was going to be alright. Just gotta listen to me,” John said with his voice slurred.

“Yeah, I know. You’re right,” Stiles said, but he kissed his temple then took his hand again.

His dad talked nonsense for a few minutes then closed his eyes again, snoring quietly. Stiles dropped his forehead against the bed and took in deep shaky breaths as over a week of bottled anxiety shook through his skin with relief.

***

When his dad had woken up and ate some disgusting smelling hospital dinner, Stiles went to pick up a change of clothes and grabbed dinner for himself before heading back to his dad’s room. He was walking down the hallway, sending a text to Chris to let him know how John was when he stepped in his dad’s room and saw Peter standing beside his bed with a hand on his arm.

Black lines were on Peter’s wrist, going down to his fingers while John still slept.

“What are you doing to him?” Stiles asked, coming inside, ready to push Peter away.

 “I’m siphoning some of his pain.”

“What do you mean…” Stiles trailed off, watching the black lines and the little creases around Peter’s eyes as he looked back down at where his hand was against John’s arm. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“How would you have?”

“Show me,” Stiles said, pulling his sleeve up.

“It’s uncomfortable. I don’t mind doing it.”

“Just show me.”

“Fine.” 

Stiles sat in the chair by the bed and held out his hand. Peter took it and pressed it to John’s forearm.

“Come a little closer, beautiful,” Peter said, not looking at Stiles.

The other half of Stiles pushed forward and the shadow behind his eyes became more solid as the room went into HD. All the smells became sharper. The air became even more unnatural. It all smelled like death. He nearly sagged when he realized his dad wasn’t contributing to that. He was hurt. He could smell that, like lemon ice cream caught in his nose.

“Think of his pain, where it originates, imagine tracing it,” Peter said, pressing his hand down against Stiles’s, curling his fingers over his so they formed to John’s arm. “Then think of pulling it out.”

Stiles’s jaw tightened, his forehead tightened, then black lines traced up his own wrist.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath as his chest felt like it was being sat on.

“The pain has to go somewhere,” Peter said, his free hand on Stiles’s shoulder.

“It’s fine. I don’t care.”

When Peter started rubbing a large circle on his back, Stiles glanced up, decided whether or not to pull away, but Peter was looking at John’s arm with the edges of his mouth turned down. Stiles didn’t even think he realized what he was doing. After a few minutes, Peter took Stiles by the wrist and pulled him back.

“That’s enough. If you do it all now you’ll be too tired to do it in a few hours when it comes back,” Peter said.

Stiles started to argue, but Peter to put his own hand back on John and the black veins started again. He watched them pulse and disappear until they became fainter, to gray, then nearly disappeared.

“You can do it again in a few hours. You’ll smell it when he starts to hurt again,” Peter said.

“This doesn’t make us even,” Stiles said, then felt his face heat up. “I mean, thanks a lot, but it doesn’t.”

“I know it doesn’t,” Peter said, rolling down his sleeves. “But it isn’t the worst way to start filling the divide, is it?”

Stiles snorted at Peter’s small, slightly manipulative smile. It was always manipulative, ranging from extremely to just a little. Maybe Peter wasn’t happy unless he was manipulating to some degree.

“No, I guess not,” Stiles said. “It’s still shady to use a dude’s dad against him.”

“Well I don’t throw opportunity away,” Peter said, then he squeezed Stiles’s shoulder and went towards the door. “Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Peter closed the door quietly behind him. Stiles sat in the chair beside his dad’s bed and started to jiggle his foot. It calmed some when he took his dad’s warm hand on the knit hospital blanket and watched the nearly muted TV braced on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD. BIGGEST ASSHOLE CHAPTER IN THE WORLD. This thing took forever. It's a beast and I am so sick of looking it. I hope you guys like it, because I was staring at it for over a month and it just did not want to play nice with me. Anyway, it's over now so I can move on to new Anchors' material. :D
> 
> (also no new chapter on Tumblr. This one took so long I got behind. Hopefully the next one will be up there by Wednesday, but no promises.)


	12. Chapter 12

The first day he worked after his dad got out of the hospital, Stiles’s was dragging as he walked out of the police station. He was thinking about what he had to pick up from the store to make his dad dinner when he dug in his pockets for the keys to his Jeep.

“Hello, dear.” Peter leaned against the door of Chris’s SUV. He held a casserole-shaped case by the handles. “Regards from our lover.” 

“Why?” Stiles asked.

“He didn’t think you would want to cook after working. He would’ve come himself, but he had to go to Colorado.”

“Why?”

“Testing for Winchester or Remington, I don’t remember,” Peter said.

“When will he be back?”

“A few days,” Peter said. “He didn’t tell you?”

Stiles flipped off Peter’s smirk. He and Chris had texted back and forth that morning, Chris asking about John, and talking about his meal plan, but those had tapered around three.

“How is John?” Peter asked.

“He’s been sleeping a lot, but the doctor said that’s normal. He doesn’t smell sick anymore, I don’t think. I think it’s mostly pain now. I don’t know, this thing needs to come with a manual,” he said, gesturing to his skull in general.

“Following your gut instinct is usually right,” Peter said, his eyes raked over his face. “You seem tired.”

“I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep much. I wanted to hear Dad if he called for something.”

“You would hear him anyway.”

Stiles shrugged. “I’m going to go. Thanks for dropping it off.”

“Of course.”

Stiles gave a little wave and went towards his Jeep. For the first time since he walked out, the other half perked up slightly as they pulled out of the parking lot. It made his eyes twitch towards the rearview mirror, it watched Peter watching his Jeep leave for a few moments before it settled back in his head, giving him back control. Stiles breathed out and flexed his hands on the wheels. 

 

That night, Chris called and Stiles talked to him, hanging upside down off the edge of his dad’s couch after John had gone to bed. He almost whispered and remembered talking to Malia that way when his dad was in the next room over.

“Would you want to come over this weekend?” Chris asked. “I’ll be home Friday.”

“Sure. Will Peter be there?”

“I’m sure. I think Talia has something going on Friday, but I wanted you to stay the night if you could. Especially with the full moon coming up next week. I want you to be comfortable there.”

“Already?” Stiles asked. The feeling in his chest like gas stirred.

“Afraid so. It’ll be easier this time from what Peter’s said.”

“I fucking hope so.”

“It will be,” Chris said.

“You’ll be there, so that’s already an improvement over being kidnapped by your psycho husband.”

Chris laughed slightly, but he kicked himself. It sounded tight.

“You should talk to him before next week. It’ll be easier if you’re comfortable being around him.”

“Trust me, the only part that counts, is fucking ecstatic to be around him. It’s gross.”

“Any little bit will help,” Chris said.

“I guess,” Stiles said, flicking the channel from something stupid to something stupider. “When is your flight?” he asked, as an infomercial played with a knock-off Billy Simms projecting their voice to the camera. He listened to Chris talk and shoved down the thoughts of the next full moon and how painful the last had been. His bones already had a phantom ache in the joints and the knots in his chest stirred like the werewolf part couldn’t get comfortable. It tossed and turned all night with him as he listened through the walls for his dad’s voice and tried to sleep as much as possible.

 

The next evening, Stiles was at home for the first time in over a week. He was throwing a load of clothes in the washer when his nose started to tingle and his skin started itching. The smell of laundry detergent doubled and the red of his sweatshirt became more vivid with the glinting of the washer drum.

By the time someone knocked, he was convinced the werewolf was pushing him towards a stroke. He didn’t bother checking the peephole. Chris was still in Denver. So it wasn’t a surprise to find Peter standing on his steps with a bag from the diner in his hand.

“I went to the station, but you were gone.”

“I went in an hour early with Dad, so I left early.”

“Are you staying with him tonight?”

“No, he says he’s tired of me breathing down his neck _._ So whatever, if I had to watch another hour of MSN I was going to off myself,” Stiles said. 

“Did you cook?”

“No.”

“Then you still need to eat,” Peter said, holding out the bag.

He wavered, squeezing the door handle out of Peter’s line of sight. The other part of his head was onboard with his idea, tapping its tail like a poodle.

“You could come in and eat,” Stiles said, opening the door farther.

“He does have manners,” Peter said, smiling before he stepped passed him, into the house.

“Yeah, you give a lecture on manners,” Stiles said, going into the kitchen. “What do you want to drink?”

When he came back into the living room with two beers, he sat with Peter on the couch. Peter was flicking through channels too quickly to be seeing much. His eyes were purple as he stared until he settled on something and they turned back to his normal blue.

They ate while watching National Geographic, a special about lions. Stiles eyes zoned in and out more than they had been in the last few days, on the screen when the lioness took down a limping zebra and on Peter’s face and the shifting colors of his eyes.

“Do mine do that?” Stiles asked.

“Do what?” Peter asked, still watching as hyenas came to the carcass.

“Switch colors.”

Peter’s eyes slid from purple to blue again as he looked away from the screen. “More than they should.”

“You can’t talk. Yours have been doing it the whole time.”

“Because I’m somewhere I know I can. In public they hardly ever change. I’ve seen yours change no less than thirty times.”

“Excuse me if I can’t control my parasite.”

“Don’t call yourself that. It hurts your feelings,” Peter said, looking back to the screen as he took a bite of his salad and his eyes changed back to purple.

“Whatever,” but he could feel the slight hollow feeling in his chest and the less distinct feeling of the wolf in his head, like it had pulled back.

When they finished, they set their cardboard containers on the table. Peter took a flask from his jacket and poured it into his beer.

“What’s that?”

“Something to get drunk,” Peter said, then held up the beer. “This will hardly do anything by itself.”

“I got drunk with Chris the other week.”

“Because you’re young. That’ll wear off.”

“He invited me to your house this weekend,” Stiles said. “Just so you know.”

“Good. You should get comfortable there before next weekend,” Peter said.

Stiles laughed through his nose, feeling slightly hollow. “You guys sound like each other.”

Peter smiled slightly before he held out his hand for Stiles’s beer can. Stiles took another sip before handing it to him. On screen, a lioness ran vultures off from a wildebeest carcass that her cubs were chewing on the ribs. 

“What happened to you two?” Stiles asked.

“What do you mean?” Peter asked.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You guys have got this weird tension going on, even when you’re talking to each other.”

Peter swirled the beer can a few times and tasted it before handing it back. He screwed on the cap to his flask before putting it on the coffee table that probably cost a fraction of the silver plated container. 

“A lot of things. But mostly, he got depressed and I cheated on him.” 

Stiles leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

Peter stared at the TV, the line of his jaw tensing, the corners of his eyes tightening.  

“What is wrong with you?” Stiles asked. “You get that he’s kind of perfect, right? Like, gorgeous, funny, smart-.”

“Stiles, you’ve known him, what? A few months? I’ve spent over half my life with him.”

“So? Unless you tell me that he hits you or locks you in a box at night, you still fucked up, royally.”

“Did I ever say I didn’t?” Peter asked. “No. But you don’t know him, and you don’t know me. Parading yourself into the middle of this and acting like you do, is ridiculous.”

“Whose fault is it that I’m in the middle of it and can’t fucking get out?” Stiles asked.

“You put yourself between me and him.”

“You turned me into a fucking werewolf, instead of maybe coming up to me and saying, _hey I really want to fix things with my husband, back off_ , because guess what? I would have. But that ship has sailed,” Stiles said. “So excuse me for throwing out a little judgment. I’m not exactly your biggest fan, but I deserve to know what’s going on, because all this fucking shiftiness going on with everyone, it’s getting really fucking old.”

The back of Peter’s jaw tensed more as he stared at the screen before Stiles watched his slowly relax and his chest deflate.

“Fine.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, sitting back and waiting for him to continue.

For a few moments, they sat with Stiles watching Peter and Peter watching the lions. His dryer time buzzed, making him jump, but Peter didn’t move. Stiles got up and popped open the dryer door, letting hot air come out against his legs before he went back to the couch and sat down.

“I don’t know how Chris explained mates,” Peter began, “But until I was seventeen, every cycle since I was three was hard. When I was younger, I had to have a chaperone to make sure I didn’t kill anything I shouldn’t. The older I got the easier it became, but it was never easy, it always took effort.

“Then when I met Chris, it was like giving Buck a shot of Valium. His voice, the way he moved, I loved to watch him breathe. I was still scared to spend my first cycle with him alone. The way I attached to him was so intense. I was afraid that when Buck finally got control, he would hurt him. But Chris pushed for it, so I stayed with him at his rent house for those few days. As soon as control shifted, I did tackle him, but it was just to smoother him, to touch him and prove how real he was. And for a werewolf hunter,” Peter said, laughing slightly. “Chris was terrible. He just let me. He had seen so many werewolves kill people, the damage they could do, and he just let me at him completely unarmed. His house was in the middle of town, and I didn’t care. None of the people I could hear passed his walls mattered. For the first time, I didn’t want to hunt things. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I just wanted to be with him. That’s never changed.”

“Then why did you cheat on him?” Stiles asked.

“Are you going to shut up and let me tell you?”

Stiles sat back and Peter stared at him, before nodding. He watched him as he flexed his hands and the cocky shell he walked around in dissolved. The blipping Stiles’s chest picked up and he felt his vision sharpen without being pushed back as a sharp acidic smell seeped into the air.  

“I told you he got depressed. I don’t mean that he had a few bad days or weeks. It was years, starting when he was 36. He doesn’t seem like it, but you’ll notice he gets anxiety. It’s hard to even smell, that’s how much he represses it, but I started to pick up on it around then. And it kept growing, and growing then it shifted to this moldy fermentation,” Peter said with his lip curling back, “Like grapes left in the bottom of the fridge for months, sweet and rotten. 

“I’ve read these beautiful little notions of dealing with a depressed loved one, but he wasn’t that way. These broken messes you get to scoop up and put back together with your love, that’s complete bullshit. He started to throw himself into his work. He ignored people and he completely shut down. He had had bouts of it in his twenties, so I did what I did then, I planned trips for us to try and pull him out of it. I tried to spend time with him. But he brushed me off. I don’t mean, once or twice, it happened over and over. I tried to get him to go to a psychiatrist and he ignored me until he started to get angry about me asking. He said nothing was wrong, that he just had projects, like I didn’t know what his projects were. And that he was lying straight to my face. I don’t even know if he realizes he was lying. I think he had convinced himself that the sky would fall in if he didn’t run himself ragged. I don’t know, but I had to watch it.

 “It went on for four years,” Peter dropped his head into his hand, braced on his knee. “then I finally annoyed him enough until he went to Spain with me a year and a half ago. I kept expecting him to cancel and he tried a few times, but I always nagged him until he gave back in. I was so excited when we were on the plane. I thought, this is finally what we need. To get away from everyone, and everything. But when we landed,” Peter laughed weakly and started to pick at his nails. “He sat in the room with his laptop, working. We would go out for dinner and he would be on his email or looking up orders. He might have said one hundred words to me that week. I exploded on him the last day there and he barely reacted. He told me to stop being dramatic and kept packing our bags.

“After that, I just,” Peter said, shaking his head and biting the inside of his cheek. “I got tired and I started to fuck one of our friends. He would, he at least laid with me and would talk to me. I needed that from someone. I _needed_ to feel like someone wanted me. But every time I went home, it was worse, because Chris wouldn’t even realize I had been gone, sometimes all night. I’d go into his office and he would still be at his computer with these rings under his eyes that made me want to core out my insides that I couldn’t make it better and that I was so fucking pathetic that I was letting someone else make me feel better for a few hours, when Chris wasn’t getting to feel better. He was hurting constantly. He always does.

“I lay beside him even now and he hurts,” Peter said, pulling at his bottom lip. The light through the window glinted off the red veins and water in his eyes. “I can’t make it stop. I’ve tried.

“People laugh when they hear someone is in a midlife crisis. They make jokes about buying a sports car or having an affair. But how is that funny?” Peter asked, looking at Stiles with his eyes more red. “How is it funny, that he woke up one day and looked at what he’d done with his life and decided that it wasn’t enough? There’s nothing funny about him realizing he has lived half of his life and being afraid of dying. That kills me. The fact that he hurts. And that he takes it all in to himself.

“So the only thing I can do is lay behind him at the very edge of our bed that he used to tangle himself up with me. I can only lay behind him and hope he doesn’t wake up so I can just siphon some of his pain off, so at the very least he can sleep well. And I know when it works the best, because his entire body sags. He puts his weight back into me and for a few hours, I lay there and I hold him.”

The water was catching at the edge of Peter’s lower lashes, still not slipping down. Stiles’s own tear ducts were burning, so they just didn’t make eye contact.

“Then I did that to him,” Peter said. “I did it and I _fucking_ told him about it.”

“You wish you hadn’t?”

“God yes.

“I was trying to do the right thing. That’s what you do when you betray someone, you tell them. But that is a load of horse shit. You don’t lessen your guilt by making them listen. It isn’t cleansing. Maybe for some people it is, maybe they work out the bitterness, but I watched his face. Denial, confusion, then just like he expected it, like he deserved it, before his face went entirely blank.

“He didn’t yell. He just got up from the table, said he didn’t want to talk, and went to his office.

“I lost it. Buck was so tired of me. He had been ripping around our insides each time I’d do it and he was finished. I spent three days in the woods in my other skin. And when I came back, Chris told me he didn’t blame me that it happened and he didn’t know what else he expected.

“The urge to eat a gun barrel has never been so strong in my life,” Peter said weakly. “I just made everything worse, his smell, and the closing himself off. I didn’t know what I was going to do.

“Then about three months ago, he started to smell like some of the life was coming back into him,” Peter said. He shrugged and looked at Stiles. “I don’t know what’s going to happen between the three of us, but you make him feel better and as much as that terrifies me, it makes me happy. I just don’t want to lose him, but I don’t have him anymore. I haven’t for a long time. So I’ll do whatever you and Chris decide. If you don’t want me to be a part of this. I can go back to my sister’s pack.”

The thing in Stiles’s chest lurched forward. His eyes completely shifted and he felt his grip on consciousness slipping as darkness pulsed in around his vision.

“You can’t leave.”

Once again, his skinjacker had taken his voice. He fought forward and slowly took some control back, hearing Peter muffled through his own ears. As he took some control back, the audio swam back in.

“I won’t unless you and Chris want me to.”

“He doesn’t want you to,” Stiles said, an echo of his own voice as the werewolf in his head hardly shifted back. “I mean, I wish he did sometimes, but he doesn’t want you to go anywhere.”

“Chris?”

Stiles shrugged, nodding.

“He told me when we were talking when all this started that he wouldn’t ever leave you.”

“That he couldn’t or he wouldn’t?”

“Both. I think,” Stiles said. He shrugged again, then reached out as Peter rubbed his palm into his red eyes impatiently. “I don’t, I guess, this sucks. This whole fucked up situation. And I can’t lie and say it wouldn’t be easier without you in it or I don’t know, if I had just gone for a single guy, but I wouldn’t feel right if you left.” He shrugged again, feeling it like a tick. “You fucked up. But you love him.”

Peter leaned into his hand for a fraction of a moment. The shadow behind Stiles’s eyes pushed forward again and basked in the pressure when Peter’s eyes slid shut for half a moment. Then he opened them and stood. He grabbed his flask from the table and slid it into his jacket pocket.

“I’m glad we could talk,” Peter said.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, then before he could reach out his hand, he stood and hugged Peter around his neck.

The werewolf half reveled in it. Peter tightened his arms and he could feel it tingling under his skin as it pressed up like hot air. Peter smelled like lemons and salt. It was nearly acidic enough to make his eyes water as mental images of people crying filtered behind his eyes, even a black and white commercial for an antidepressant, like the wolf was clawing out anything relevant in his thoughts it could find.  

His vocal cords vibrated again without his permission, his lips right against Peter’s ear.

“I don’t want you to leave us.”

Peter’s hand slid up the back of his skull, ruffling his hair. “I know you don’t.” Then he kissed the side of Stiles’s face before he walked towards the front door. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “You don’t have to go.”

“Thank you, but I think I’d rather roll in my self-pity alone,” Peter said, smiling slightly. “Have a good night, Stiles.”  

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Night.”

Peter twisted the lock on the door handle before he pulled it closed behind him. He heard his phone vibrate in the kitchen. It rang in a heartbeat rhythm on the laminate. He sat on the couch and watched the rest of the lions as the room darkened before he pushed himself up and went to get his phone. The heaviness in his chest eased slightly when Chris picked up the phone and he listened to his warm voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have the next chapter beta'd by tonight and up on Tumblr. :D I'm so excited to be started on it again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this one is rough. I'm doing the GISHWHES thing this week starting tomorrow and didn't have a ton of time to look it over. I'll edit it as I find errors.

On Friday, after work, Stiles packed a bag and drove to Chris and Peter’s house outside of town. The drive there was prettier than he remembered when Jordan came to pick him up after the full moon and he couldn’t really see it the night he had come out before his dad’s surgery. Now, he could see the lake through the leafless trees from the road as he drove, the mountains coming up a few miles away. He nearly missed their driveway. It was barely visible, just a small wooden gate. It would’ve looked uninhabited if not for the thick lay of gavel.

When he pulled up, Peter’s Mercedes was parked outside of the garage and the large bay door was open. As he stepped out of his Jeep, Chris came out from the other side of his SUV in the garage.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Stiles said, going towards him and hugging him. “How was your flight?”

“Alright. I got bumped from first class, so that sucked.”

“Poor guy. Had to sit with the commoners.”

Chris smiled and squeezed him around his neck before kissing his temple. Stiles tried not to feel giddy from it and couldn’t help it as he followed Chris back into the garage. The walls were lined in metal cages with rifles and shotguns of various calibers and makes.  

“Holy shit.”

Chris looked back and then laughed slightly, looking back at the cages. One was open with an AR-15 laid on the work bench beneath it.

“Your job is amazing,” Stiles said, staring.

“It has perks.”

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, gesturing to the broken down rifle.

“Just cleaning. I was testing a new lower at the range earlier.”

“The range?”

“Behind the house,” Chris said.

“That’s awesome,” Stiles said, looking around the garage. Two motorcycles were in the corner, shrouded with gray covers. “Where’s Peter?”

“He’s taking a call,” Chris said. “Do you want to go fire a few rounds?”

“Sure,” Stiles said.

“Grab what you want.”

Chris used a set of keys to open another door to the metal caging. He ran his hand over a few different AR-15s before he grabbed one with a matte gray barrel.

“What’s the make?”

“It’s one of mine,” Chris said, putting it over his shoulder on a sling. Then he dug under the counter and took out a few boxes of ammo and put them in his jacket pockets. “There are 1911s in the drawer to your right.”

Stiles pulled open the drawer to three handguns laid in a padded drawer. He picked up a Kimber .45.

“I’ve had that since I was 21.”

“An antique. Nice.”

“Ass,” Chris said with a slight smile.

Chris handed him another rifle to carry and loaded Stiles’s jacket pockets with a few more boxes of ammo before hanging ear protection around his neck, then a set around his own. They walked out of the garage to the dirt driveway and onto a pine strewn side-yard. The needles were so thick that no grass grew between them.

They followed a path through the pines for a few hundred yards before it emptied into a large constructed clearing. It was circled by low cedar walls. At the end a few dummies stood, and above, ran a wire rail system covered with sections of tin roofing.

“Sweet set up.”

“I had to have somewhere to test the prototypes. Public ranges don’t want the liability,” Chris said.

“How old is it?” Stiles asked, laying the rifle that had started to make his shoulder ache on one of the tables.

“Fifteen years or so.”

“You’ve been doing the prototype testing that long?”

Chris shook his head as he loaded a magazine. “Peter had it built a few years before I got my first contracted.”

Chris popped the magazine into the AR-15 he held before he held it out to Stiles. Stiles took it as Chris went to the buttons for the wire system. He bent down and took a large target paper from the cabinet beneath the counter. He hung the target then sent it out on the wire.

“How far?” Chris asked.

“Where you put it is fine.”

It whizzed a few more moments then Chris stepped back and pulled his ear protection up. Stiles slid his own on before pulling the stock of the rifle into his shoulder, tucking it in solidly. 

He pulled the trigger and flinched hard. It was loud. Even through the padding. He shook his head and shot again, and again, emptying the clip. Chris took the rifle from him when he finished and he slid the headphones off.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t even thinking about the noise,” Chris said. “Peter didn’t like guns when he was young either.”

“I have to get used to it anyway.” 

Chris frowned, but nodded.

“You should keep the earbuds off. Shoot the pistol a few times.”

Stiles did what Chris said, emptying four magazines down range. His hands were a little shaky when he finished, but his head ached faintly at his temples.

“That’s good,” Chris said, looking at his target sheet.

“Yeah. It’s kind of jumpy in there,” Stiles said, gesturing to his head, “But it isn’t crippling or anything.”

“Good,” Chris said.

“Did you want to shoot?”

“No. I did all week.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“It was fine. I stayed in a hotel most of the time. Went and talked to a few of the higher ups. They’re all stuck up dirtbags, but work is work,” Chris said.

“That sucks.”

Stiles leaned back against the table and watched Chris fold in the edges of a box of ammo and put it into his pocket. The sun was starting to go down behind him, passing behind the trees and turning the bare white branches orange and yellow.

“I missed you.”

Chris smiled without showing his teeth. Scruff had grown while he was gone. It was nearly the same length as his short hair.

“I missed you too. Especially Tuesday. I ordered a burger from the hotel and it was like sawdust.”

Stiles laughed slightly. “You should’ve just come back sooner. We could’ve gone and had something good,” he said, scraping his shoe over the dirt. When he thought of what he had done Tuesday, he felt his smile faltering. He glanced at Chris who was standing with his hand in his jean pocket starting at the dirt with the ghost of smile on his lips, like he was thinking of something, before he looked at Stiles and smiled wider.

“I talked to Peter while you were gone,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek.

The little smile fell and Stiles felt it in his chest.

“He cheated on you?” Stiles asked.

Chris leaned back beside him, flicking at some of the flaking paint on the edge.

“He did.”  

“I’m sorry that sucks,” Stiles said. “And that sounds stupid. Sorry.”

The corner of Chris’s mouth turned up before he looked back out at the trees and it fell again.

“He made a mistake. He’s sorry.”

Stiles listened to the steady beat of Chris’s heart, but he thought that even if Chris told him the sky was green, his pulse probably wouldn’t change at all. He would probably still look up just to make sure it was still turning purple with sunset.

“Yeah, obviously,” he said, watching Chris’s face. His pulse was too even for talking about something that had to feel like shit. When Peter had talked about doing it, his pulse had jerked with the pitch of his voice. “But I’m glad he told me. It helps kind of understand everything.”  

“I’m sorry. One of us should’ve said something sooner.”

Stiles shrugged. Then gnawed at the inside of his cheeks, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“I just, I don’t want to be some kind of one up,” he said, glancing at Chris. “I don’t want you to use this between me and you to get him back.”

Chris looked at him and rolled his shoulders under his canvas coat. “It crossed my mind when we first started having dinner, but it isn’t like that anymore. It wasn’t ever really like that after I got to know you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I promise,” Chris said.

“Good, because that would fucking suck,” Stiles said with a weak laugh.

He looked down towards Chris’s stomach then saw him lean forward. Stiles looked up as Chris came closer. He saw Chris’s eyes lingering on his mouth before he met him half way, his lips soft and warm against his own as the temperature around them dropped.

It was sweet until Chris had him pushed back against his table and both of them were pulling at each other’s jackets. Chris’s large warm tongue pressed into his mouth then the pressure in his head was crowding him, pulling him closer.

They kissed until Stiles could feel how cold Chris’s hands were as they slid under his jacket, beneath his shirt. He shivered at his fingertips, making his skin breakout in goosebumps.

“We should go back to the house,” Stiles said. 

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

“I’m okay, then.”

Stiles laughed then pulled away enough to press his forehead to Chris’s. “I don’t really want to fuck around with you if you’re going to be worrying about how cold your nuts are.”

Chris’s laugh was warm again his face.

Stiles closed his eyes and shook his head against Chris.

“I shouldn’t even like you.”

“I know. It scares the hell out of me.”

“I’m insane.”

Chris’s eyes were right in front of his. Even in the low light he could still make out the color with the wolf pressing against the back of his own.

“No you’re amazing,” Chris said, then he squeezed the back of Stiles’s neck when he started to look away. “You are. I don’t know how you’re dealing with this as well as you are. You’re incredibly strong.”

“Not really. I’ve freaked out repeatedly-.”

“Stop,” Chris said, continuing to rub his back. “You’ve been wonderful. I know that.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Chris kissed him again, then again until Stiles’s face was warm again. When they walked back to the house, Stiles held Chris’s hands as they wound through the dark trail. He could hear things he never had before, birds, things in the underbrush. He scanned the trees and let Chris lead him until they were back on the driveway and walking into the still open mouth of the garage.

Chris flipped on the light and they started to put away the guns. When they were finished, the door to the house opened, and Peter walked out.

“Good evening, Stiles,” Peter said, before he looked at Chris. “Do you mind if I take your car to Talia’s?”

“That’s fine,” Chris said, taking his keys from his pocket and holding them out.

Peter’s eyes passed over Stiles and he felt his heartbeat ratchet up in his chest. He wondered if he could smell that they had kissed on Chris’s breath. If he could smell the little bit of lingering horniness in their clothes.

“I won’t be home until late. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” Peter said.

He looked like he would kiss Chris, then he barely paused. Stiles thought he would’ve missed it if his stalker wolf wasn’t locked on Peter, watching every single movement. Then Peter moved to the side and kissed his cheek before he stepped around him and climbed into the SUV. Before it was even reversed from the garage, Chris was passing through the door into the house and Stiles followed.

Stiles could hear the SUV leaving the driveway as they walked into the kitchen. Chris stood at the counter, picking at something on the counter and Stiles stood a few feet behind, with his hands in his pockets.

“Did you want to watch a movie or something?” Stiles asked.

“No.”

“Me either.”

The sound of the Tahoe’s motor had passed out of hearing range and the house was quiet. Weirdly quiet. Even in his dad’s house he could hear small creaks and groans. His house was a constant chorus. This was like a vault.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” Chris asked.

Stiles laughed slightly. “Just for like months now.”

Chris smiled then started walking out of the room. Stiles went with him up the stairs. They only got to the top before Stiles grabbed Chris by his jacket and pulled him back starting to kiss him again. The awkwardness fell to pieces, leaving the warm fluttering feeling under his ribs. Chris’s stubble scraped his lips, his teeth, as he pushed him farther down the hall then through an open door. It only took a breath to know it was a guestroom. It didn’t smell like Chris and Peter, but it smelled clean, like the sheets had been washed that day or the one before.

They pulled away enough to push off their jackets and Stiles kicked off his shoes, then laid down and watched Chris tugging at the knot on one of his boots. He laughed when Chris lost his balance.

“You could help me.”

“It looks like you’ve got it under control,” Stiles said.

“Such a shit,” Chris said, kicking his boot off and crawling on the bed over him. 

The stitching of Chris's shirt tore when Stiles grabbed it.

"Sorry," Stiles said. 

"You're fine," Chris said, yanking it over his head and starting to kiss him again. 

He could taste how humid the air was between their mouths. It was like holding watered down Alka-Seltzer in his mouth. Stiles pushed him to roll him over. Then Chris was on his back, his air grunting out.

“Shit, sorry,” Stiles said.

“I’m used to it,” Chris said, grabbing him by his arm and pulling him.

Stiles straddled his hips, kissing down his neck and running his hands down the black and gray hair spread of his chest and tapering down his stomach to his jean line.

Stiles kissed down Chris’s stomach, listening to him hiss when he dragged his teeth over his skin. Red lines were left. His mouth felt swollen. He ran his tongue over his teeth and felt the dull points of fatter canines. Chris’s heart beat faster.

“I don’t think I can make them go away,” Stiles said, braced over Chris.

Chris brushed his thumb over his swollen top lip, grazing the bottom of one of his teeth.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles laughed and feeling himself get hot through his chest.

“You have a werewolf kink.”

“A small one.”

“A small one my ass,” Stiles said, grinding against Chris’s jeans.

Chris’s grabbed his hip and pulled down again. The line of his dick was hard behind his zipper, pushing against Stiles’s ass. Tingles shot up Stiles’s spine as more heat flooded down his throat. Chris leaned up and kissed down the side of his neck, one hand angling up his chin, and the other moving up from his hip to slide over his back.

He dragged his nose over the short hair above Chris’s ear. His fingers tightened in his shoulders. He felt the stretch in his fingertips, the sting under the skin, then heard Chris’s quiet grunt before he smelled blood.

“Sorry.” 

Chris shook his head. “Don’t say sorry again.”

 Stiles nodded and Chris slid his hand between them to pull at the button on his jeans. Stiles shifted to help then lifted on his knees enough of Chris to get them down before he could pull them off with his underwear. He wrapped his rough hand around him jacking him off a few times, spreading the precum down making it tacky and cool.

“How do you want to do this?” Chris asked.

“I’m going to be really pissed if you don’t fuck me,” Stiles said.

Chris smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling. Stiles kissed him again. Chris kissed him back before rolling them. Stiles felt his fingers against his chin before Chris pulled back and slid his fingers inside, watching them disappear between Stiles's lips.

When Chris pulled them out, spit trailed down Stiles's chin. He had fucked around the few years after high school and some when he was at academy. He knew to spread his legs and relax as Chris started to rub his fingers against his ass, but with Jackson, Isaac, and Danny, he had to think about relaxing, because as soon as their fingers were lubed they were pushing them into his ass, the same way he did them.

Chris started to kiss him again, circling his ass with his wet fingers. When he slid the first in, Stiles was holding his breath, watching him kiss down his stomach. He dragged the flat of his tongue up the underside of his dick as he started to drag his finger in and out slowly, taking the time at the end to find his prostate and rub against it. Jackson got lucky once or twice to hit it when he was prepping him. He could give him shit, but he didn’t know if he ever hit Jackson’s. He never cared too.

He squeezed his eyes closed as Chris sank his mouth down on him, fingering him open in the same rhythm. When Stiles did open his eyes, he closed them almost immediately again. Chris’s eyes were closed as he moved up and down, his lips red and wet.

“How many is that?” Stiles asked.

“Two. Do you need more?” Chris asked, pulling off.

Stiles shook his head. Chris moved back up him, still not taking his fingers out. He hooked them in repeatedly to rub against that spot that made Stiles’s stomach feel like it was going to drop out.

“That feel good?”

“No. Feels like crap,” Stiles said, then jerked as Chris pressed harder. “Fuck.”

“I should probably stop then.”

Stiles shook his head. Then he heard fabric tearing. He opened his eyes and looked down at his nails buried in the sheets, down into the mattress. He looked at Chris who shook his head.

“Don’t say it.”

“Fine. Fuck your sheets,” Stiles said, with hardly any breath as Chris kept moving his hand between his legs. “Lay down and get your clothes off. Why are you still even fucking wearing clothes?”

“Because I haven’t taken them off yet.”

“Take them off,” Stiles said, pushing at his jeans.

Chris laughed slightly before leaning over and wiping his hand on one of their shirts. When he laid down, he pushed his jeans and underwear down his thighs and Stiles yanked them the rest of the way off.

“God,” Stiles said, kissing the top of his hip. Beneath his skin tingled as the werewolf moved closer, gripping Chris’s thighs and breathing in the deeper smell. “Just don’t wear clothes. There’s no reason to.”

Chris laughed sliding his fingers through Stiles’s hair. Then he squeezed when Stiles sucked his dick into his mouth.

Having a split personality in his head while giving a blow job was one of the weirdest things he had ever felt. He could feel the werewolf taking in how Chris’s heart was beating, how he smelled, how it knew he was starting to sweat, the taste of his skin. While he was busy moving his tongue and trying to get as much of him in his mouth as he could without gagging.

The were was pathetic for every little groan Chris made, how his breath caught, and when he bucked up his hips. It made his insides feel like jelly, it floated on it with the same kind of happiness that Peter gave him when he said a pet name, but tenfold.

At the thought of Peter, a huge knot formed right in the middle of his chest. The wolf pulled back. He felt his teeth receded, his fingernails.

“Are you okay?” Chris asked, tilting up his face.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, shaking his head, then knee-walking up to straddle his hips. “Condoms?”

“You don’t need them anymore. Weres can’t carry diseases,” Chris said.

“Fuck yes,” Stiles said under his breath as he poured lube from the bedside table on in his hand and reached back. He pushed some into his ass before rubbing it on Chris’s still wet dick.

Chris ran his hands up his thighs while Stiles lined him up. He closed his eyes and rubbed him against himself. He did that to Jackson once until he got pissed and shoved up. Chris just laid there and rubbed him, up to his hips and back down again. When Stiles opened his eyes, Chris was looking down his chest, to his stomach, his dick, then back up again.

“Ready?”

“Take your time,” Chris said.

Stiles sank back and watched Chris’s eyes glaze while his ass started to sting. He bit the inside of his cheek and paused, getting used to the feeling after so long, then pushing back a little more.

“Don’t move,” Stiles said.

Chris’s hips stayed still, but Stiles heard him lick something right before his hand wrapped around his dick that was starting to go soft with the burning. He jerked then sank back as his body relaxed.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Fuck, yes,” he bit out between his teeth.

The hollow feeling still sat in his chest, but he ignored it as the wolf pushed images at him. Peter. Alone. He opened his eyes and looked down at Chris. He lifted up and pushed back down, watching the way Chris’s breathing changed, how it was so easy to see his pupils dilating in his light blue eyes.

When he looked at him, Chris didn’t close his eyes or look down. He looked right at him, reached towards him and urged him down. He felt the heat crawling back up his chest and into his face as they kissed and Chris moved up into him, his thighs on either side of his hips.

The kisses got sloppy. He wouldn’t even call them kisses if there was something else to name them. It was just their lips brushing each other, their faces, cheeks, jaws, and necks while their fingers dug in to each other and the air started to smell like sweat and sex. The shadow in his head came forward then. Stiles could almost feel it fighting with itself, but the smells became thicker, richer, he could tell his sweat from Chris’s. He could see every individual color in Chris’s stubble, the different shades in his eyes.

“That’s it,” Chris said, holding his cheek as he pushed up into him again.

Stiles could smell his breath and it liked it. It liked the way he smelled, the way it could smell his smell under almost scentless deodorant. The smells twisted on Stiles’s own feelings and shot them higher, making him bite back a moan as he dug his fingers into Chris’s chest.

“What color?” he asked, trying to breathe.

Chris started at him for a moment before he understood. “Light brown. They glow.” He said, dragging his thumb under his eye. “It’s perfect.”

Stiles went forward, but it wasn’t him. He felt the harder way his lips pressed against Chris’s, tasted blood as his gums stretched again.

He got absorbed in it. The feeling of Chris moving, not just in him, but every movement under him, his pulse, and the way he could see it under the thin skin of his throat. He could smell it the moment before he started to come while Chris touched him. His skin became more acidic, then he was shooting on Chris’s stomach. He watched Chris’s stomach jerk as his body seized around him with his orgasm. Then his fingers were digging into Stiles’s hips, pulling him down more roughly a few times before he came with bitten off cussing.

Stiles collapsed on top of him after, not caring that they were being tacked together by his own jizz as it dried. He felt Chris’s chest rising and falling under him while his hand massaged sleepily at his shoulders.

Stiles pressed his face into Chris’s neck and listened to his jack-rabbiting heart slow. The hollow feeling was back in his chest, like when he used to jack off using one of his dad’s old porn magazines and felt guilty for it. But everything aside from that was peaceful. He focused on the warmth of Chris’s body under him and the perfect way his body burned while his breathing slowly evened against Chris’s chest.

***

They must have slept, but they hadn’t moved. Chris pulse was deep and slow when Stiles woke up, his cheek on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and floated a little longer in the feeling of their body heat against the cool air before Chris’s hand started to move on his back.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, looking up without lifting his face.

Chris kissed him a few times before he smiled, a sweet tired smile. Stiles’s insides clenched. Since he saw him pissed off at the coffee shop that second time they met, he had wondered what a sleepy smile would look like. Finally seeing it was so perfect it almost hurt.

“Do you want to get something to eat?” Chris asked.

“You’re one of those guys?”

“Every time,” Chris said. “I’ll cook.”

They cleaned up in the attached bathroom before Stiles headed downstairs. A few minutes later, Chris walked into the kitchen, wearing black sleep pants and a loose shirt. Stiles propped his chin on his hand and watched him get things out of the fridge.

“After sex is a good look for you,” Stiles said.

Chris glanced up from slicing a tomato and smiled again. “You think so?”

“Mhm.”

Stiles’s chest clenched again. His heart felt like pudding. He wasn’t under any illusions with Chris. He was in love with him, but he hadn’t felt the giddiness in a few weeks, the electric and warmth. It was all flooding him now and all he wanted was to cuddle him close and not let him go.

“What’re you making?” Stiles asked.

“Sandwiches.”

“Want some help?”

“Sure,” Chris said. “Knives are in the drawer by the sink.”

Stiles started to cut the red onion Chris handed him. He had barely taken the skin off when his eyes started to water. Chris laughed when he started crying and bumped him back around the island finishing cutting them himself. They ate in the living room, curled up together on the large sectional, watching TV. It was a documentary over something, but Stiles wasn’t paying attention. After he ate, he got tired, leaning into Chris’s side with his arm heavy and warm around him. He had never cuddled with a guy he’d had sex with before. It felt good to be the one against someone bigger, even if it was only barely.

When Chris kissed his forehead, he was fading in and out of sleep while a narrator talking about something serious on screen.

“Why don’t you go to bed?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, still leaning into his shoulder.

It was something underwater on screen. A large spotted whale swam by divers. It made the dark walls and ceiling shimmer with blue.

“Do you want me to come up with you?”

The TV played off his eyes and washed his face pale. The hollow feeling in Stiles's chest amplified. He shook his head, then shrugged.

“I want you too, but isn’t that,” he started to speak again then stopped. “Peter was alright with us fucking around, but I don’t really want to push it.”

“You aren’t pushing anything.”

“Okay, then I don’t really want to hurt his feelings,” Stiles said.

“Is it going to bother you to sleep alone?”

“No. I got more than enough earlier,” he said, smiling slightly.

Chris smiled back, but he looked over Stiles’s face for a second before he nodded.

“Okay. I’ll be in the office if you change your mind.”

Stiles leaned up and kissed him again before he got up.

“See you in the morning?”

“Okay,” Chris said. “Sleep well.”

“Yeah, you too,” Stiles said.

They kissed a few more times before Stiles went up the stairs and crawled into bed. The hollow feeling lessened slightly and he felt the pressure in his skull come forward again to where it normally was. His nose twitched at the smell of the room, him and Chris, before he dropped into a deep sleep.

***

It was passed three in the morning when Chris heard the front door open from his office. He heard the clatter of Peter’s keys on the table in the hall, then the thud of him kicking off his shoes. Chris scanned an email, blinking and stretching his lids.

“I didn’t think you would be awake,” Peter said, coming in and taking the armchair across from him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Chris said. “How’s Talia?”

“Fine. She invited you to a cookout they’re having next month.”

“Okay.”

“I guess Stiles is in bed?”

“He went up awhile ago.”

“Was it everything you’d hoped it’d be?” Peter asked with a half-smile.

Chris stared at him until Peter looked away. “Stop.”

Peter hardly flinched, but it set off his expression and the half-hearted cockiness washed from his face.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“You’re right,” Peter said, then he stood up. “I’m tired. I’m going to go to bed.” 

 “You don’t get to make me feel bad about this,” Chris said.

“I didn’t ask you to, Chris,” Peter said, his shoulder sagging as he pulled the door to. 

His footsteps were muffled on the hallway carpet until he reached the stairs, then Chris couldn’t hear him anymore. For a while, he pushed it out of his mind and answered the emails he had left. Then he turned his chair and unscrewed the lid on a bottle of bourbon. It was the brand Peter got him for his birthday, for their anniversary, whenever he needed to apologize. That was almost enough to make him put it down and reach for the cheaper label behind, but nothing burned as smoothly.

Finally, he shut down the computer and put the bottle back. There was a guest bedroom down from the one Stiles slept in. That was where he planned to go, but when he reached the top of the stairs, he passed it. He went down the hall to his and Peter’s bedroom and crept in with his buzz lingering.

He undressed on his side of the bed before laying down. He settled in on his side, facing the window. When he drank, he either fell right to sleep or he tossed. Tonight it seemed like the latter.

It took him longer than it should have to realize that Peter hadn’t rolled over. When he tossed, it would wake Peter up and he would press behind him, keeping him still enough to go to sleep.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

The alcohol had dulled the anger. It was still there. It would come back, like it did every day, sometimes when he least expected it. It could just be a look from Peter, a smile, it could just be Peter laughing and it was enough to push him over from a good day to a bad.

But it wasn’t there then even when he tried to pull it back up. Some kind of indignation flared in his chest, but it felt like schoolyard pettiness when he knew that Peter was awake beside him and that he was too upset to use his fall back sarcasm to cover it up.

Chris moved closer and put his arm around Peter’s waist. It had been a long time since he had been close enough to smell his hair. It was the same shampoo he used, but it smelled different worn into Peter’s skin, faintly sweet and slightly medicinal. Peter stayed still for a moment then he pulled his legs up and made himself smaller, pulling Chris’s hand tighter against his chest. Chris slid his arm beneath Peter’s neck under his pillow and folded against him.

They had done that for so long. The smell of him and fitting himself against him, it was so familiar, so easy. He squeezed Peter back closer like it could make the heaviness in his chest go away.

“Did you feel this bad when you did it?” Chris asked quietly.

“I felt like the worst person in the world,” Peter whispered.

He felt the harshness come back to his thoughts, but the position of his body didn’t change. Peter only bent more to press Chris’s hand to his nose and mouth.

Chris’s heart clenched so hard it didn’t seem like he could breathe.

He remembered Peter at seventeen in his bed and smelling his wrist after they had sex for the first time. When he took Peter’s virginity and Peter had been almost giddy after. It had been infectious. The way he smelled his palm, then went up his arm and kissed his face and neck like a puppy. It was one of the first times he saw Peter’s eyes go green, before he was an alpha and he’s wolf’s beta gold mixed with his natural blue.

He felt hollow as he remembered.

His entire body ached and he felt old. He was so tired of being angry, but he couldn’t stop. It laid in his chest like a fault line. It hurt. He thought about it and it hurt. He thought about doing the same thing to Peter and that wound throbbed.

He pressed his hand to the center of Peter’s chest and pushed until he felt bone. Peter held it harder to his sternum, like it hurt in the same place. He laid his face against Peter’s neck, the pressure building on the bridge of his nose as he shoved down a consuming throb in his chest that beat behind his ducts with low seething panic.

He couldn’t do this anymore, but he didn’t know how to stop.

Peter rolled over and pulled his face down to his neck. Anxiety made his skin feel like it was made of glass. It hurt to be touched. But when Peter didn’t let him initially pull away when he tightened his arms for just a second, it felt like he was being strangled, like he was trapped. He felt his pulse skyrocket and he thought he was going to scream, right before it broke. He thought he was dying right before he started to breathe again.

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles was gone when Chris went downstairs at nine. There was a note written on the back of the water bill laying on the bar that said he had been called in. He sent him a text to have a good day and pulled out things to cook breakfast. The radio played quietly. An older voice read the weather, a chance of rain, possibly snow the next week, then classic rock played.

When Peter came in, he ran his hand over his lower back as he passed behind him to start the coffee maker and take down mugs. After he poured the grounds, he came back and slid his arms around Chris’s sides, dropping his face against his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked.

“Nothing,” Peter said.

He let Peter hang on for a second before he shrugged him off and took down a plate, lining it with paper towels. Peter stood stiffly in his peripheral vision. He glanced up and his skin prickled at the look on his face.

 “You’re never going to let this go, are you?” 

“It’s too early for this.” 

“You’d rather wait to until you’re shit-faced and crawling into bed like a kicked dog?”

Chris flipped off the burner as a flush of heat passed down his spine, embarrassment and anger. Then he leaned back against the counter.

“What then?”

“Do you have any idea what that does to me?” Peter asked. “Or do you even care?”

“What what does?” Chris asked.

“Don’t play stupid with me,” Peter said.

“Then don’t play the victim with me,” Chris said. “What I come to bed a little upset and you feel guilty? That isn’t my problem.”

“No, you come to bed and start to not smell like a bitter fucking cess pool,” Peter said. “You start to smell like you’re forgiving me, then I come down to this? What the fuck is this?” he asked, gesturing around them. “What the fuck are we even doing? You don’t even let me touch you.”

“You fucked another man for two months, Peter.”

“You ignored me for five fucking years!”  

Chris stared at him, watching his eyes fade to maroon then back to blue before Peter looked away. His hands were shaking when he wiped at his mouth, like he was pushing back a shift. It wasn’t the first time he said it, but it was the first since he told Chris about Deucalion. 

“I didn’t ignore you.”

“You can’t even admit it,” Peter said. The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that wasn’t humor at all. He stepped closer until he was nearly touching Chris’s chest. He could feel the heat of the pan behind him against his wrist.

“Have you ever asked yourself how far I must’ve been pushed to even stomach someone else’s hands on me? Or are you blinded in your ivory tower, where everyone is only there to wound you?”  

“Stop,” Chris said flatly.

“Stop what? Chris, we aren’t doing anything. Nothing at all.”

“Am I supposed to forgive you at the drop of a hat? You knew how I was when you married me.”

Peter nodded then took a step back. “I did know you when I married you. I don’t know if I do now.”

Chris rolled his eyes with a laugh. “And you’re still as dramatic as a teenager.”

Peter shook his head and stepped back. “I’m going out,” he said. “I just want you to think about if what I did is worth throwing away what we have to try and replace it with someone else. He loves you. One day he might even love you as much as I do, but no one is ever going to love you the way I do.”

“I could do with someone not loving me the way you did.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Peter said with such flat authority that Chris drew up short. “You don’t know half of what I did for you. Therapy, when you wouldn’t go with me, reading books, researching medications, looking into holistic, only to have you reject every single thing without listening. You rejected everything I tried to give you.”

“Don’t start that again,” Chris said. “I wasn’t pushing you away, I wasn’t _rejecting_ you. I was working, Peter.”

“What are you getting by lying to me?” Peter asked. “I’m not lying to you. I told you the truth. I had sex with someone else, but he was never what I wanted.

“I would come home and I would scrub my skin until I bled. I hated myself. I still hate myself, but I needed something after you made me feel like shit, again and again. Maybe I should’ve been stronger, but we aren’t all blessed enough to be able to shut down so completely when life gets hard.”

Chris’s vision flared with black at the edges.

“Don’t blame me for what you did,” he said quietly.

Chris held Peter’s eyes. They were red, but there weren’t any tears as he stared back.

“I’ll be home tonight,” Peter said then he pulled Chris forward by the back of his head and kissed the corner of his mouth. Chris let himself be pulled, but kept his arms crossed.

Peter walked out of the kitchen and back up the stairs. Ten minutes later, he heard the garage door roll open and the noise of Peter’s motorcycle. He had put the potatoes back on the heat and turned them again and again, not paying attention as they passed golden and began to char.

 

 

That evening, Stiles was finishing his patrol of the traveling carnival that set up in the park every year. He sat near a funnel cake truck with Parrish and Derek, sucking powdered sugar from his fingers as he looked over the crowd. Kids screamed on the rollercoasters constructed early that morning.

When they were in fifth grade, he and Scott had ridden the one shaped like a purple spider until they puked corndogs. He stared at the same ride and watched the legs lift and fall while it spun in circles.

“It all seemed a lot cleaner when I was a kid,” Stiles said.

“They set it up in four hours and you expect it to be clean?” Derek asked.

Stiles flipped off Derek’s eyebrows. He had showed up over an hour ago in his civilian clothes and walked around with them like he had nothing better to do on a Saturday. It was almost fun, but now a throb was starting behind his temples from all the movement and the noise. The sunset wasn’t helping with the flashing lights getting brighter.

When someone kicked his boot under the table, Stiles looked away from a light flickering out on the Ferris wheel. Derek met his eyes, then looked to the right. Stiles glanced over and saw Peter, standing with his back to them a few hundred yards away.

He watched him for a few moments, eating another fried piece of dough before he stood up, dusting his hands.  

“I’m going to go say hi to someone. I’ll be back in a minute,” Stiles said.   

“Your shift is almost over. I can finish with Jordan,” Derek said. “If you didn’t care,” he said, looking at Parrish.

“Not at all,” Parrish said.

“Thanks,” Stiles said walking passed them and slipping through the thin crowd towards Peter. He was standing back from a water gun booth, watching a dad with his kids shooting at the small metal targets while tin horses raced above.

“What’cha doing?” he asked when he could feel the heat off the nape of Peter’s neck, bumping his shoulder as he came to stand beside him.

“It smelled nice,” Peter said, staring at the game as one horse reached the end and a bell rung.

“Is Chris here?”

Peter shook his head then looked at him. “Are you working?”

“I was, but Derek’s finishing up for me.”

Peter looked back over his shoulder where Derek and Parrish were still standing by the table.

“Young love.”

Stiles snorted and watched at the dad at the game in front of them pointed at one of the prizes. He gave a stuffed panda to one of his girls. The other started to argue, even as she carried a giraffe by its ear.

“You don’t think he takes full moon patrols out of the goodness of his heart, do you?” Peter asked.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“Derek,” Peter said. “He isn’t that altruistic.”

Stiles watched Derek and Parrish walk the opposite way with a spattering of families passing between them.

“Shut up.”

Peter shrugged and started to walk waiting for Stiles to step in beside him. They were right beside each other, but it took a few yards for him to catch Peter’s acidic scent under so many people, musty tarps, and fried food masked it better than he would have imagined.

“You have to stop doing that so often,” Peter said.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“Your eyes.”

Stiles didn’t even realize they had changed until they faded and Peter looked blurry for a moment. Peter touched his lower back, then dropped his hand. The smell of lemons and salt mixed with bleach came back under everything else.

“If this is about yesterday,” Stiles started quietly after they had walked awhile and Peter hadn’t said a word.

Peter shook his head. “I didn’t come here about anything. I didn’t even realize why I had until I saw you.”  

Stiles wanted to smile, but Peter looked like shit. His hair wasn’t crazy, but it wasn’t perfect like normal. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and a day’s worth of stubble stuck from his cheeks and chin. Stiles stared at it, then brushed his thumb over it, feeling the drag against his fingertip.

 “I’m fine,” Peter said.

“Sure,” Stiles said.

Peter smiled and it surprised Stiles how much he hated that it could look so sad.

“If I did this, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you. Not that that should even matter, I get it. I didn’t have any business looking at him twice. I know that.”

“Stop, Stiles,” Peter said, shaking his head tiredly. “If he leaves me, that’s on the two of us. You were a bystander

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Peter laughed and pressed his warm heavy hand to the back of his neck.

“Between the three of us, we’ll run out of things to martyr for.”

Music played from the carousel and carnival workers called from booths over PA systems. They walked in circles through the noise and the lights, the smells and the high-pitched prey-like laughter and he hardly noticed.

When his hand bumped the back of Peter’s, he caught his fingers and twined them together. It didn’t cross Stiles’s mind to care that some people in a town this size would know Peter was married. Peter didn’t seem to either as he squeezed his hand softly and kept it that way for hours.

 

 

It was hours after Peter had walked Stiles home, when he pulled his motorcycle into the garage next to Chris’s still beneath its gray cover. As he killed his own, he heard the dull echoing pop of gunfire through the walls and saw many of the doors to Chris’s armory left open. He walked out to the range with the echo ringing in his ears. The air smelled of smokeless powder as he walked into the clearing, the blue flood lights hazy with it.

He watched Chris shove another magazine into one of his tactical rifles and pull the trigger. He emptied round after round down range with the flare of muzzle flash leaving ghosts images after they died, like the carnival lights had lingered as he and Stiles had walked down the dark streets of Beacon Hills.

Peter’s ears still rang with the noise of so many people and the laughter of children. The numbness of gunfire sounded like it still as he watched Chris lay his rifle on the table before he turned around. The harsh lighting washed out his face, but Peter could see how flushed his cheeks were.

“Where did you go?”

“Into town. I saw Stiles.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“It was fine.”

Then Peter heard Chris clear his nose before he picked at the flecking paint of the plywood stand. He looked up at Peter and Peter’s stomach dropped. He looked exhausted, but he didn’t look angry. He didn’t know if it should give him hope or terrify him. They stared at each other for a long time before Chris dropped his eyes.

“I'm so tired of this,” Chris said.

 “I know you are,” Peter said softly.

Chris shook his head then stared at the ground.

“I forgive you a hundred times a week,” Chris said.

Peter nodded because he knew. Those blips of hope, how Chris would reach out to touch him like he wasn’t thinking, or look at him, how Chris would smile at him one moment then stone wall the next, it was a rollercoaster without a pressure bar.

“But it just takes small things to break all my resolutions. Even though I know if you had done it six years ago, Peter, I would’ve known the first fucking time,” Chris said with his face twisting. “I remind myself of that all the time, but then I think that until you told me, someone could’ve put a gun to my head and asked me and I still would’ve told them you could never do that. That you loved me too much.”

“I know,” Peter said weakly.

“But I don’t think you would have believed that I could become this bitter hateful fucking person,” Chris said spitting out the words. “I let you feel guilty, because it’s easier than thinking that I deserved it. But it doesn’t change the fact that I sit on the couch and I wonder if you fucked him there or I drive your car and I wonder how many times you drove it to his house. I fuck you and I think about how many times he was in you and then I just have this,” he paused, swallowing hard with his hands trembling. “I can see myself murdering him and it takes will power not to go splatter his brains across his fucking bed where I know you’ve been.”

Peter looked at the blanket of pine needles at Chris’s feet. The rage wasn’t flattering. He didn’t find peace or hope in the fact that Chris was jealous. It sat on his chest like stones, pressing heavier with the smell of the air becoming damper. He seethed with electric anger.

“But that isn’t your fault,” Chris said.

Peter looked up to Chris’s dark eyes.

“At this point, if I can’t move passed this, that isn’t on you, Peter. You have to understand that.”

He remembered the panic of telling Chris, those days after that morning he told him in their kitchen. It had felt like the sky was shattering, but it was made a thousand times worse by the fact that the sky wasn’t falling. It was still above them. That’s what he felt now as the air was sucked from his lungs. The animals were still in the underbrush, the stars above them, and against all physical feeling, his heart was still functioning.

“Don’t say you can’t move passed it,” Peter said.

“If I can’t-.”

“Don’t say that.”   

He couldn’t even bring himself to feel more than slight humiliation as his voice broke. Chris’s face softened and he was weak enough to take heart in that.

“Don’t cry.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Peter asked.

Chris tightened his jaw then Peter saw the moisture in his eyes. He heard Chris’s pulse break and his own raced. It felt like he was going to vomit. It was what Peter had been asking himself for years when Chris acted like he only existed on the very edge of his world, a second thought, if he thought of him at all.

Still he wished that he could take every word he had said that morning back and they could go back to the silent tension. His heart beat painfully, like if he couldn’t go back, it might physically stop.

Chris shook his head. “No, but I don’t know what to do, Peter. I don’t know how to fix this.”

Peter’s eyes filmed as it felt like his throat was closing. “I don’t know, but I would give anything if you’d let me try. You’ve never stopped being anything less than everything to me. I can’t-. I don’t want to do this without you.”

“But I don’t know how to fix it. I can’t string you along like this. It’s not right.”

“Then don’t.”

He felt the tears in his eyes spill over and didn’t wipe them away. It felt manipulative, but he let them stay.

“Chris, please.”

Chris eyes looked like they fractured as the water in them broke.

Peter took a step towards him and Chris dropped his head forward before Peter heard the congestion of tears. He expected to smell alcohol when he put his arms around him, but there was nothing but Chris. 

 “I don’t know how to just drop it,” Chris said. “But I love you more than anything in the world. It kills me I’m hurting you.”

Peter clutched his jacket and pulled him tighter.

Chris kissed his cheek then farther down, tilting up his face until his wet lips pushed against his. Peter kissed him back, pulling him closer by the collar of his coat, tasting the salt of his own tears and Chris’s as he breathed in his moist breath.

Peter knew he was kissing desperately, but he didn’t care to stop. He felt like a tree deprived of rain. He would suck up every drop of affection Chris would give him to weather another drought, because if Chris pulled back again, despite his words that morning, he wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave until Chris made him. Even if it made him pathetic and he felt the little pride he had shrinking.

Then Chris pulled away and pulled his hand back towards the house before dropping it. Peter followed him as he started to walk back down the path through the dark trees.  

 

 

The walk back to the house was stiff and silent. Chris listened to the sound of their shoes on the dirt and his sniffing from the cold and the weight of a house on his chest. The difference in feeling was almost staggering, walking through here with Stiles yesterday, and Peter now. He had felt the tension over his skin last night when Stiles was holding his hand. Peter wasn’t even touching him, wasn’t even close, but he could feel him behind him like a tether.

They walked through the garage the same, went through the same door as he and Stiles, but when they got inside, Chris didn’t pause. He grabbed Peter’s hand without looking at him and pulled him towards the stairs.

There was awkwardness too. He felt it crawling up his spine and out through his arms. But when they stepped in their bedroom, Peter closed the door and pressed up behind him.

It was like stepping into warm water when his body ached.

Peter slid off his jacket and tossed it over a chair before he ran his hands beneath Chris’s shirt. It wasn’t like when Stiles had nearly torn his shirt. It wasn’t needy grabbing. There wasn’t any mystery. Peter knew what was under his shirt and he still wanted to touch him. He still wanted to feel his body.

“Lay down. Let me rub your back,” Peter said, against his neck.

“I don’t want you to rub my back,” Chris said, “Take off your clothes.”

Peter’s hands stilled on his sides with his lips pressed to his shoulder. Chris touched his hand then slid their fingers together.

“Peter, just take off your clothes for me,” Chris said, tilting back so his neck rested against Peter’s shoulder.

They took off their own clothes. Chris sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced his boots, watching Peter pull off his shirt. Chris stripped completely before he sat in the middle of the bed and waited on Peter to fold his clothes over the back of the chair like he always did. Then he crawled onto the bed, still in his underwear and straddled Chris’s thighs.

Chris slid his fingertips into the band of Peter’s underwear and popped them.

“Mystery,” Peter said.

“Not unless you’ve grown a third ball when I wasn’t looking.”

“Maybe I have.”

Chris laughed. It felt strained, but Peter smiled. He rubbed his hand over the front of Peter’s underwear and squeezed. Peter closed his eyes and pushed forward. There wasn’t anything apologetic about how he acted. Nothing self-conscious. Peter was sitting on top of him while he was naked and it wasn’t even a second thought.

He leaned up and urged Peter’s chin down until they could kiss. He rolled his tongue into Peter’s mouth and felt his small sigh. He couldn’t remember the last time he kissed Peter when it wasn’t aggressive, when he was too pent up and desperate not to grab Peter and shove against his mouth. Peter never resisted. Every time he had melted against him and Chris had used it to the fullest.

Peter melted now too and it made his chest burn. Even after being jerked around he wasn’t protecting himself from Chris when he had no reason to trust him.

He shoved his face into the crease of Peter’s neck and shoulder. His warmth was familiar. The way he smelled and the texture of his skin, not just to his fingertips, but to every part of him. His thighs knew what Peter’s legs felt like, his stomach knew the feeling of his back, of his front, his sides.

The way his breathing went higher, how he held his breath a few seconds before he gasped when Chris got his underwear off and slid a finger inside of him then two. He bent his fingers and slid the tips over the small hard knot inside of him. Peter held on to his shoulders and moaned against his skin. It was like hearing an old song, a favorite song and falling into every word. When Chris pushed inside of him and Peter sank down, barely lifting, just rocking on his lap, he pressed his brow against Chris’s shoulder and breathed jaggedly. He started to make a dull whimpering noise as Chris ran his hands over his back and held him to his stomach. When he kept whimpering, it hurt. It went down to the very base of his chest and twisted in his heart strings.

“Shh,” he said against his lips, kissing it away softly. “I’m right here.”

He tried to look in his eyes, but Peter only looked at him a moment before he dropped them. Chris wiped the moisture from his cheeks and pushed up with his arm tightly around his hips.

Peter’s fingers dug into his shoulders then Chris felt the faint sting as Peter’s nails cut him.

It wasn’t far from the small scabs Stiles’s had left on him, but they felt different. He didn’t make a noise. It was almost gentle how Peter did it. Timid. Chris’s chest pounded.

“Peter,” he said softly kissing the side of his face. Peter kissed him back until he breathed a few times into his lungs. He could taste the desperation. His head started to throb behind his temples. He thought of Peter coming to sit on the arm of his chair in his office and rubbing his shoulders, leaning down to whisper in his ear that he should come to bed.

Chris pulled him closer.

He had lost count of how many times he had done that. He wondered if Peter had counted. He thought of the times later when Peter walked around the house and wouldn’t met his eyes. He started to wonder if Peter had ever fucked Deucalion in this bed, then he rolled Peter on his stomach and covered him from behind.  

It didn’t matter. He told himself that, but it was already had to push the acid back eating at the lining of his throat.

Chris slid his arm beneath his neck, letting Peter pillow his cheek on the crease of his arm. He could feel his ragged breathing through his back, passing up into his own chest as he breathed hard into the roots of his hair and down his neck.

“Don’t make me leave,” he whispered.

“I’d always go with you,” Chris said before he even thought.

“God, Chris.”

Chris fit his hand into the curve of his hip and pulled him back.

“I love you,” Peter said.

Chris pushed against his neck again, not knowing if Peter could know his smell any better than he knew his. It did something to his insides the way it always had. Even when the rift was largest and pressing against his skin in their bed to steal a lungful could give him a few seconds of peace.

“I love you too.”

Peter shook his head, his hand fisted in the sheet as his forearm moved with their weight. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“Peter,” Chris said.

“I love you-.”

Chris covered his mouth with his hand, kissing the side of his head hard as he ground against his hips. Peter’s breathing was wet and sharp against his palm. His cheeks were moist again.

“I never thought you didn’t,” Chris said. “I’m sorry I ever made you think I did,” he said, pulling out just to press forward again slowly and feeling Peter shiver under him. “I’m sorry I ever made you think I didn’t love you.”

Peter sank his dull human teeth into the meat of his palm.  

Chris pushed his face into his neck and fucked into the warmth of his body. He felt the tension in Peter’s jaw as he bit harder. Then Peter let go. He felt his breath on his damp skin before Peter started to sink to the bed. Chris pushed his weight in to him and let him take his pressure as he made love to him slowly and listened to the soft grunted out moans Peter made while he clenched and unclenched their fingers together between his cheek and the pillow.

“Go slow,” Peter said.

Chris slowed even farther and felt his interior clench and release.

It reached a point that he didn’t know if either of them would come, if he even wanted to. Peter’s body shivered under him and he loved the feeling of them.

“You never felt his way about him,” Chris said quietly.

“God no,” Peter said, propping up on his elbows under him, making the muscles along his lean back stand out.

Chris fucked him harder and listened to his noises becoming less desperate and more what he was used to. When Peter came hot and wet on his hand, Chris pressed down on his back and moved in him harder until he spilled in his insides, knowing he was the only one who had that mattered. He was the only one who had touched Peter that mattered. For a few blissful minutes, that was completely uncontested in his mind as he slumped back onto Peter and let him slide their hands back together. Peter held his clean palm to his nose and breathed against it with his eyes closed. Chris listened to the quiet rhythm of his air and kissed his neck softly.

“If I wake up tomorrow and you’ve changed your mind, I will go insane,” Peter said.

“I won’t,” Chris said. 

“Good,” Peter said quietly, kissing his calloused hands.

Chris closed his eyes and rubbed his brow against Peter’s shoulder side to side until Peter pulled him forward by his hair until he could kiss his cheek. Chris’s face was buried in Peter’s pillow beside his nose and mouth. He could smell him breathing, feel his warm body under him rising and falling. He held his breath until he could go at the same pace, slowly and evenly. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke up it was still dark and he was on his side with Peter laying facing him.

He traced the line of his forehead, down his nose, and over his lips, feeling his rough fingertips catch on the soft skin. Then he rolled over and pulled Peter’s arm around his side. Peter molded to him, even in his sleep pressing his face down into his shoulders with a tired sweet noise.

Chris felt like he was exhaling years as he pulled him tighter and fell back to sleep in his arms.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to update this. Here have almost 10k to make up for it. 
> 
> Some animal on animal violence tag and slight dubious consent when Stiles is a werewolf.

Stiles sat at the diner on Monday during his lunch hour, twirling a straw paper and waiting on Chris, or Chris and Peter, he wasn’t sure. He stared out of the window at slow cars passing and pedestrians walking mostly in pairs. Some of them held hands and he thought of walking with Peter last night, holding his hand until they were at his front door.

He remembered the kiss, no tongue, no groping. It felt more like comrade than lust, but he could still feel the warmth on his lips as he thought about it.

The rasping noise of motorcycles pulled Stiles back to reality. A silver BMW and something Italian parked near the curb. Their exhaust made the windows vibrate before the riders cut the engines.

When they took off their helmets, Stiles’s gut stirred with flutters and unease as he watched Chris put his arm around Peter and kiss him. Peter kissed him back opening his mouth and it went from something sweet to perverted.

They looked like an ad. Leather jackets, Chris’s barely gray stubble against his white teeth, and Peter’s perfect smile as he pulled away. Chris didn’t let him go for a moment, and Stiles watched faint red go over Peter’s cheeks.

He almost looked like a teenager, he almost looked sweet.

A flash of lust went down the anxiety.

Then they separated and Chris held the door as Peter walked in before stepping in behind him. 

“Hello, Gorgeous,” Peter said, pushing into the booth beside him, laying his arm over his shoulders.

“Hey,” Stiles said, scooting over then smiling at Chris as he sat across from them.He twitched away when Peter started to idly play with the side of his hair. Peter flicked his ear and kept petting him.

“Have you been here long?” Chris asked.

“Like ten minutes. What are you doing?” Stiles asked, pulling away from Peter again.

“What do you use on your clothes?” Peter asked, close to his neck.

“Gain?” Stiles asked, batting Peter away as he inhaled over his shoulder. “Stop.”

Peter went right up the side of his neck. Then there was a low quiet noise. Stiles froze and as saliva rushed under his tongue and filled his mouth. Stiles shouldered him away and swallowed to keep spit from running down his chin. 

"Quit," Stiles said, scooting away and wiping at his mouth. 

“I’m sorry. That was rude,” Peter said, but he didn’t take his arm from around his shoulders.

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles said.

Peter smiled.

“Asshole,” Stiles said. 

A waitress came up then and took their orders. Peter started to drag his fingers back through his hair again as he spoke. The waitress looked between the three of them and Stiles looked at the table, tapping his fingers to keep him face from getting warm.

“How was work?” Chris asked.

“Slow,” Stiles said. “What’ve you guys been doing?”

“We rode out to the lake,” Peter said, looking at his hair as he slid his fingers through it.

The crawling itch was back under his skin. It was worse this morning when he woke up, but it hadn’t been great since the other night at the carnival. He could smell the air on Peter’s skin from him riding. It smelled really good. His fingers felt good. 

“You should skip work and come with us,” Peter said.

“It’s too cold to ride.”

“Not if you aren’t a pussy,” Peter said.

Stiles shouldered him. Peter hummed and pulled him closer.

“Peter, stop molesting him,” Chris said.

“He’s just so pretty, Christopher,” Peter said.

Stiles melted and he had just enough of his sanity left to feel pathetic. Peter smiled and touched his cheek, trailing over a few days’ worth of stubble.

“One of you come sit over here,” Chris said.

“Why?”

It surprised Stiles that it came out of his own mouth. Peter smiled wider showing his teeth.

“I agree, why?” Peter asked, then he kissed the side of Stiles’s throat and Stiles shivered. Then he forced himself out of the booth and away from Peter’s body heat.

“Making me pop fucking wood in public, in uniform, fucking asshole,” Stiles said under his breath before he dropped into the booth beside Chris.

Chris put his arm around him too, but it wasn’t the melt worthy feeling. He squeezed him and it made Stiles feel calmer, not like he was about to crawl out of his skin.

“That’s a nice view too,” Peter said.

“You need to go take a shower,” Chris said.

“Only if you come with me.”

He winked and Stiles did a double take when Chris smiled. It wasn’t a humoring smile, really. But it was fucking gorgeous. His eyes lit up. He looked happy.

The waitress cut off anything else as she came back and put down their drinks. 

“The full moon is in a few days,” Chris said when the waitress went away, leaving them alone in their corner of the restaurant.

“Yeah, I figured,” Stiles said.

“Have you been feeling badly?” Peter asked.

“Not really, just edgy.”

“Understandable.”

“We need to talk about ground rules,” Chris said, then gestured at Peter. “Obviously with the way you two are acting.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked.

“He’s concerned about your modesty,” Peter said, like it left a bad taste in his mouth. It took Stiles a second to realize he was pouting.

“Clearly I should be.”

Peter snorted and looked out the window.

“I don’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with when you aren’t thinking,” Chris said.

“He’ll still be thinking,” Peter said.

“Peter,” Chris said.

Peter frowned. Chris reached across the table and squeezed his hand, before he looked back at Stiles.

“If you’re like Peter, you’re going to be more affectionate and I don’t want to keep you from all of that, but I think it needs to be limited.”

“Like?” Stiles asked, trying to keep his face from going red when he remembered the flashes of his last shift. He had begged Peter for more than a few things, explicit, graphic things.

“Maybe only things we’ve already done,” Chris said.

“So fucking and blow jobs.”

As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. Peter didn’t flinch, but the lines around his eyes tightened and he pulled his hand away from Chris.

“Sorry,” he said immediately. "I don't know why I'm even allowed to talk, really. Sorry." 

Peter waved him off.

There were only a few moments of awkwardness before the waitress saved them, dropping off their food. Stiles was just starting to put ketchup on his fries when he checked his phone and saw the clock.

“Son of a bitch, I have to go,” Stiles said, sliding out of the booth and going up to get a container.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we’d be late,” Chris said, when he came back.

“It’s fine. I can eat on patrol,” Stiles said, packing his food in before leaning over to hug Chris. “See you later.” Peter had stood up by the time he leaned away. He hugged him too, squeezing him for a second. “I’m really sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Peter said, rubbing a circle between his shoulders. “Be safe at work.”

“Sure. See you guys in a few days.”

“Of course,” Peter said.

Stiles smiled slightly at both of them before he walked out. The diner’s air felt hot on his face as he tried to push down the tugging at his skin from his stupid mouth and the ridiculous shit he said with no filter. Chris and Peter’s bikes were parked by his car. He just looked at them a second and his gut sank a little lower. They were so different, but they fit. They looked so nice, so much better than he could afford, or even dream of. But they were perfect together.

He shook off the feeling as he slid into the seat of his cruiser and the smell of fried food soaked into the aged cabin.

 

When got home from the diner, walking in the door from the garage, Chris grabbed Peter by his arm and pressed him against the wall in the kitchen. Peter’s mouth hardly curved up as Chris stood in his space, their stomach’s brushing as he started to unbutton his jeans. He smelled like outside, gasoline, and the leather of his riding jacket. 

“Don’t be jealous,” he said as he slid his hand into Peter’s underwear.

“I’m not,” he said.

Chris kissed him, a peck before he mouthed at Peter’s jaw, letting his teeth graze his skin and listening to him exhale.

He squeezed Peter in his hand, feeling the hard flesh under his soft skin.

Then he kneeled, his left knee popping loudly in the quiet of Peter’s rough breathing. He skinned Peter’s jeans down his legs and took his dick in his mouth, sucking him halfway before pulling back up, lubing his skin with his spit before he took him to the back of his throat.

He nudged Peter’s legs as far apart as they could go with his jeans and underwear still on and took his balls in his palm. He rolled them in his hand, then circled his fingers just above, and pulled down.

Peter hitched into his mouth and moaned. A glob of thick precum gathered at the back of Chris’s mouth as he milked the fluid out with his tongue. 

When he let go of the tension on Peter’s sac he slid his fingers behind and pushed into the area right behind. Peter’s breathing staggered before he pulled Chris’s head forward, his palm heavy and warm through his hair.

Chris didn’t need a warning. He felt Peter's thighs tense under his hand, heard his breathing catch through his nose, His hips pressed forward a few times, then he jerked with a muffled moan before his warm bitter cum shot against the roof of his mouth.

Chris sucked him clean before he stood, pulling up his jeans and underwear at the same time. Peter dropped his forehead against his shoulder and let Chris take his weight.

“Don’t be jealous,” Chris said, against the few gray hairs at his temple.

Peter stayed still before he rocked his brow against his shirt and moved up to press his cheek there instead. Chris cupped his jaw and wiped his thumb under his eye. They were so dark blue at the edges they were nearly black.

“I don’t like that you did it to hurt me,” Peter said. “I’m not jealous. It just stings.”

Chris put his arms around his shoulders and hugged him tighter. Peter put his arms under his, resting them against his back.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Peter said.

Chris pressed his nose against Peter’s temple. He held him tightly and soaked in the way he melted against him. After a few moments, Peter patted his lower back and leaned away. He buttoned his jeans before smiling. Chris smiled back before he bumped beneath Peter’s chin and swiped his thumb over his jaw.

“Love you.”

“I know you do,” Peter said, bumping against Chris as he brushed passed. Chris looped his arm around Peter’s waist and pulled him back to kiss his cheek. It did what he wanted. Peter smiled, his cheek hardly denting. “Your breath smells like cum.”

“You like it.”

Peter huffed a laugh before he let Chris hug him from behind. Chris rubbed against the side of his neck, burying his smell into his pores. Peter rumbled softly and squeezed his wrist.

“I love you too,” Peter said.

Chris hummed and kissed his neck before he let Peter worm out of his arms.

“What do you want for dinner?” Peter asked.

“We just had lunch,” Chris said.

“I’m still hungry,” Peter said, pulling open the refrigerator door. “We have steak. Can you make it for me?”

“I’m not your damn maid,” Chris said, as he went to the cabinet and took out his cast iron pan and preheated the oven. “Medium rare or rare?”

“Bloody, please,” Peter said, pulling the cellophane off the black tray of meat. He put the ribeye on a plate and sucked the blood from his fingers before he took spices out of the cabinet. Chris watched his eyes flare before he poured oil in the pan and listened as it started to pop.

 

The next evening, Stiles walked into the diner after his shift. He was supposed to be off, but that went to shit. Which was fine, he didn’t mind covering for people when they were sick. He did mind when they were just hung over and didn’t want to come in. Since it was his grocery day, and he didn’t get to shop, he had nothing in the house. Not that he would’ve cooked, probably, but it would’ve been nice to have the option.

He tried to shrug it off as he went to the counter and took his normal stool. A football game was on. He could hear fans cheering and an announcer, but he didn’t watch the screen.

“Stiles, what can I get you?” the waitress said.

“Just a burger.” 

When the bell above the door rang, he looked back out of habit. When he sat alone at the counter, he expected Chris to come in the doors, that’s just how it worked. Of course it wasn’t Chris. He didn’t know he was here and even if he did, they hadn’t met regularly in a few weeks with all the shit that had happened. 

Stiles pulled out his phone and laid it on the counter.

Then he pulled up his texts and Chris’s name.

_Did you want to meet at the diner?_

As soon as he sent it, he doubted doing it.

Chris and Peter hadn’t been all over each other yesterday, but it was different. He couldn’t pin point it, but the tension was gone when they looked at each other. Not to mention them kissing, Chris actually initiating it, leaning in to it.

Stiles swallowed and flicked through his phone while he waited for a reply.

When it started to vibrate he picked it up and slid it to answer.

“Hey.”

“I’m already cooking, but you’re more than welcome to come over,” Chris said.

“Oh yeah of course you are,” Stiles said.

“I should’ve texted.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like it’s a date,” Stiles said.

“Still. I forgot what day it was.”

“Is that Stiles?” he heard Peter ask in the background. Chris must have nodded. “Tell him to come eat with us.”

Stiles’s face heated up. In the overly warm, greasy air, he felt kind of sick. For some fucked up, stupid, self-centered reason hearing him say it hurt. Like it was an afterthought. 

“I already ordered." 

“You could have it for lunch tomorrow,” Chris said.

“It’s fine. I’m kind of tired anyway,” Stiles said. “You guys have a good night.”

“Are you sure?” Chris asked.

“Yeah. I need to get caught up on laundry and stuff.”

“Ok. We’ll see you tomorrow,” Chris said. It wasn’t a question, but Stiles nodded.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Night.”

“Let me know when you get home.”

“Ok. Tell Peter hi,” he said.

“Sure,” Chris said.

When he hung up, Stiles watched the TV. The guys down the bar were the same ones that were always there. They were talking about one of the players, but Stiles wasn’t paying attention. He waited on his food and twisted his phone between his fingers.

 

When he got home, his house was dark. He forgot to leave a light on, like always. He didn’t eat. He put the Styrofoam container on the top shelf in the fridge and thought about doing a load of laundry. He didn’t want to, but he stripped out of his clothes in front of the washer and shoved it full.

Finally, he went down the hall and crawled into bed in his underwear.

He flipped mindlessly through his phone and thought of texting Chris out of habit. But he stopped himself.

Chris was spending time with Peter. That was great. It was great that they seemed to be getting along again. They deserved it. 

He said that repeatedly before he rolled onto his stomach and squeezed his pillow to his face. Underneath his skin and in the rear of his brain, the coil of tension ebbed and flowed on a cord. It felt like it was breathing as it unfurled and settled again.

Just before he fell asleep, he felt it settle, but it was closer to his skin. He could smell every note in his sheets, the sweat, and scent of his own skin, his own shampoo and soap. It was kind of comforting, but his chest felt hollow; at the quietness of the house and the solitary, lonely smell of himself.

 

The next day, Stiles walked up to Chris and Peter’s front door as it started to get dark. He rang the bell then knocked when no one answered before pushing it open.

“Hello?”

When he didn't get an answer, he walked down the hall to the side of the stairs, towards the kitchen. There were things on the counter, seasonings, and a plate of steaks, but Chris and Peter weren’t in there. He was about to call out again when he heard Chris laugh.

The rolling coil in his brain jerked to the forefront as he went towards the sliding door. Chris was standing by a large silver grill and Peter was sitting at a table, facing him. They were both smiling. Peter said something and Chris laughed again, turning back to the grill.

“Hey,” Stiles said, sliding the door back.

Peter looked up and smiled. “Good evening.”

Stiles glanced around when he felt a heat. Two large standing heaters were putting off warmth, the tops glowing cherry red.

“How was work?” Chris asked.

“Fine,” he said then he shrugged when Chris raised his brow. “Shitty. I’ve had a headache all fucking day.”

“Poor little love,” Peter said, then he held out his hand.

Stiles didn’t even think twice between he went over to him and dropped onto his lap. Peter looped his arm around his waist and dragged him closer.

“The first cycles are the hardest. You’ll learn to block things out.”

Stiles didn’t care about what he was saying, the way he smelled was fantastic. After a day of being in a moldy building and nasty ass squad cars, the clean warmth of his skin smelled so pure.

“You shouldn’t work on full moons,” Peter said.

“I can’t really help it. We’re short staffed.”

“When you can help it, don’t. You could’ve been with me all day instead.”

Stiles groaned and pressed into his shoulder. “That would’ve been a lot better.”

“Do you want your steak rare, Stiles?”

Stiles opened his eyes and looked at Chris standing at the grill. “Yeah.”

“Okay, good,” Chris said, flipping the steaks onto a plate and sitting at the table.

Stiles got out of Peter’s lap and sat in the chair beside him. Stiles loaded his plate as Chris and Peter did the same thing. 

Peter and Chris talked while they ate, but Stiles couldn’t really. He noticed yesterday when he ate his burger. Red meat consumed his brain, all he could think about was the juice. The steak was better, it was still cool in the center. When he finished his first steak, another was put in front of him. He didn’t really look up to see who put it there, just mumbled a thanks and kept eating.

When he ate his last bite, he realized Peter was rubbing his back while he talked to Chris. He couldn’t even say when he started, but when he looked back, Peter barely smiled at him before he finished whatever he was saying.

“Are you good or do you want another piece?” Chris asked.

“I’m good. Thanks,” Stiles said, wiping his mouth. Then he groaned when he realized how full he actually was. “God that was good.”

“Glad you thought so,” Chris said, smiling. “I’m going to throw this in the dishwasher. The smell drives me crazy.”

“So strange,” Peter said.

Chris grunted and picked up the few plates before he went inside. Stiles looked over his shoulder at the backyard. It had to be close to half an acre. At the far side, a large stone wall rose against the woods. A shed was to the side and a pool was a few yards from the patio.

“It’s heated,” Peter said.

“Yeah, of course it is,” Stiles said.

“It’s good for the joints,” Peter said.

“Is it heated or is it hot?” Stiles asked. “Because it’s fucking freezing.”

“Don’t be a coward,” Peter said, standing up and walking towards the pool.

“You don’t want to help Chris with dishes?”

“He likes to load the dishwasher by himself,” Peter said.

“Really?”

“He is my beautiful anti-social butterfly,” Peter said.

Stiles watched him kick off his shoes at the edge of the pool. There was a glow from the lights underneath the water. When he pulled his shirt over his head, it washed his chest and stomach out in whitish blue.

“Dude, fuck you,” Stiles said.

“Hm?” Peter asked.

“You don’t get to have that kind of fucking body. That’s ridiculous.”

Peter smiled, looking down, as he started to unbutton his jeans. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He shoved the denim down his legs then dived into the pool. He hardly made a splash. Stiles watched the dark blur of him swim to the other end as he walked closer. When Peter popped up again, he dragged his hand down his face.

“Get in,” Peter said.

Stiles stripped off his jacket and pulled off his shirt. He tried not to think about going down to his underwear before he jumped in near Peter, cannon balling water into his face.

“You little shit,” Peter said, grabbing him when he surfaced and pushing him under again.

Stiles came up sputtering and laughing, pushing Peter away. The water was warm, almost bath temperature. Peter’s bare slick skin slid over his as he tried to get away.

“I told you it’s warm.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said.

There were water droplets on Peter’s cheeks and stuck in his lashes. The lighting made it all surreal. His sharper sight made little rainbows in them.

“Your eyes turn the most alluring color.”

“Yeah, yours aren’t bad either,” Stiles said, watching as Peter’s turned purple. Trying for nonchalance didn’t really work when his breathing caught. “Jesus, that’s really pretty.”

Peter smiled before he reached up to wipe water from Stiles’s cheek. Stiles was completely enamored when he was shoved under water again. He came up laughing.

“You dick, you can’t use your looks against me.”

“I can and I did,” Peter said, a few yards away.

Stiles swam towards him and Peter back pedaled towards the wall. Stiles dove underwater and caught him around his legs, yanked them from beneath him. When they came up, Peter grabbed him around his waist again, swung up his legs and tossed him so that he landed with a splash.

It completely dissolved into splashing and pushing at each other. He hadn’t remembered screwing around like that since he and Scott used to go to the community pool in the summers.

He never remembered feeling the tingles shoot down his body when Scott’s chest would slide against his back or when he felt Scott’s stomach tense under his hands. He didn’t feel bad when he smelled the slightly hot smell, like black pepper mixing under the salt of the water. The other half of his mind was right there with him, coiling and uncoiling, urging closer and closer, it supplied him with all the mental images that smell meant.

Still when he felt Peter’s hard dick against his ass before he dunked him again, he shivered in the warm water. Peter licked a line up the side of his throat before he yanked himself back and pushed Stiles under the water again.

“You fucking cheater,” Stiles said, coming up laughing and wiping the water out of his eyes.

“It isn’t cheating if you’re winning,” Peter said.

“Kids, no arguing,” Chris said.

Peter looked back towards the house and smiled before he swam to the edge. 

“Get in with us,” Peter said.

“I’d freeze.”

“We wouldn’t let that happen,” Peter said.

Chris smiled down at him, taking a drink of his beer before he set it down and pulled his shirt over his head. He was already bare foot, but he pushed off his jeans before he sat on the ledge.

“Take these off,” Peter said, pulling at the leg of Chris’s underwear.

“You didn’t take yours off.”

Peter pushed back from the wall and reached under the water. Stiles watched him pull off the dark blur of his underwear before he looked away. There was a wet slap as he tossed them on the concrete.

“What’s in it for me?” Chris asked.

“Like you have to ask,” Peter said, pulling Chris’s legs apart and kissing his inner thigh.

Stiles heart fluttered in his chest at the same time his dick throbbed.

“Is it okay with you?” Chris asked, looking at Stiles.

Stiles nodded, not trusting his voice, but Chris only watched him until he nodded again. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

Chris laughed slightly before he lifted up enough to slide his underwear down. Stiles felt like he was dry swallowing. Seeing Chris naked once wasn’t enough to be used to it. He was so fucking gorgeous, even his dick was attractive. His mouth watered then Peter had Chris in his hand and Stiles felt frozen.

Peter kissed under the crown of his dick before he kissed open mouth and sucked him in. Chris’s eyes closed before he tightened his fingers in Peter’s hair. Stiles looked from his face to Peter’s, his eyes closed and his lips stretched around Chris as he bobbed up and down with a quiet hum.

“Are you okay?”

Chris’s voice was graveled when he asked, looking at Stiles with his eyes glazed like he was drunk. There was a soft wet pop as Peter pulled back.

Stiles nodded. He could feel his neck and face getting hot against the cold air.

“Yeah. It’s just different,” before he finished Peter was dragging the flat of his tongue over Chris’s dick. “Watching,” Stiles said, as he stared where Chris was going into Peter’s mouth.

“You don’t have to watch,” Chris said.

“No, I can give you guys some space,” he said, backing up in the water.

“That’s not what I meant,” Chris said, grabbing his arm. “We’ll stop if we’re making you uncomfortable, but we don’t want you to leave.”

Peter growled and it raised the hair on the back of Stiles’s neck as it vibrated through the water and he pulled off Chris again.

“Stay.”

“Peter,” Chris said. “He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to.”

Then he was out of the water, Peter’s hands lifting him out by his hips. His ass met the tiles before Peter’s body heat was over him, radiating through the cool water.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked.

His eyes were dark red and Stiles’s realized his own must have changed without noticing, because he didn’t become any clearer, but he could feel the half inside of him claw under the surface.

“No.”

Peter smiled, his elongated teeth hardly showing before he pressed his face into the side of his neck. There was pressure then Stiles turned and Peter inhaled up the side of his throat.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Peter said.

Stiles felt it through his chest. Then he felt heat in his face again when he glanced at Chris, sitting beside them before he dropped his eyes. Chris put a hand under his chin and lifted it back.

“He’s right. You’re gorgeous.”

“I don’t want to piss one of you off.”

“You aren’t going to,” Chris said, brushing his thumb forward and back against his temple.

“I love watching you touch him,” Peter said in a low noise against his throat before he pulled back and braced on his arms. “Kiss him, Chris.”

Chris looked at him until Stiles nodded. Then he leaned down and his lips were cool for a split moment before his tongue traced the seam and Stiles opened his mouth and let him in. It felt like his face was on fire. He could feel Peter watching them. Peter was naked on top of him. Chris’s fingers were in his hair as he tilted his neck back to kiss him deeper.

Then Peter bit the side of his neck and he gasped in Chris’s mouth as bolts of near pain shot down his spine.

Peter’s hand slid up the front of his throat and pressed in. Stiles felt the hard line of his dick against his hip before he jerked and it rubbed against his. Chris sucked his lower lip into his mouth before pushing his tongue in shallowly.

Then Stiles smelled blood mixing with the salt water a split second before a growl reverberated through his body.

“I’m sorry-,” he started to say again, feeling like his mind was frying. His nails were digging into Peter’s back. He couldn’t pull them out. The tug under his skin was right on the edge. It felt like he was going to explode.

Peter’s eyes were glowing. They were bright red near his pupil and moving out to bloody crimson. Stiles had a second to stare before Peter shoved his mouth against his. He didn’t feel his lip burst, but he tasted blood as he shoved back against Peter, kissing him harder, feeling the wall of his teeth behind his lipss before it turned wet and warm, licking and tasting. He felt Peter’s nails dig into his throat, just enough to break the skin. He smelled his blood mixing with Peter’s, his spit, and their sweat.

The other half was right there under his skin. It felt like he could see it moving if he just looked down. It wanted at Peter so badly. Stiles felt like he was drowning on his own saliva, like he couldn’t feel enough, or see enough. It wanted to be all over him. It wanted Peter everywhere. It felt like he was vibrating with the need. Like he couldn’t breathe.

Peter was so close and it needed him closer.

“Little love,” Peter said, against his lips.

Whatever noise came from Stiles’s throat, it didn’t sound human. The edges of his sight were pulsing with black. Everything felt foggy with the throb of his heartbeat.

“Shh,” Peter whispered against his ear.

He was so warm. His body on top of Stiles’s was so warm, like a living blanket. Stiles pushed into the crook of his neck when Peter wouldn’t let him kiss.

Then he felt fingers pushing into his hair and blunt nails dragging back over his scalp.

“Breathe,” Chris said softly.

The air left his lungs in a gush before he sucked in the smell of Peter again. Chris was all over his neck. His smell was all over Peter. Stiles drug his nose up the line beside his windpipe. He could taste Chris on his tongue from smelling Peter’s skin. He dragged his tongue over Peter’s blood vein slowly. He felt Peter’s vocal cords vibrate. Then Peter’s fingers were twisted in his hair beside Chris’s. He didn’t have to look up. He could feel it. The radiating warmth of Chris’s body was closer. He could feel his thigh press against his and he closed his eyes against Peter, he could feel his lashes dragging against his skin.

“Is it going to hurt as bad this time?”

“No,” Peter said against his ear. “You just come to me when you start.”

Then he felt soft lips pushing against his neck, on the underside of his jaw. He could smell Chris more strongly. His bones shook. It was like being in a cave of them. All he could smell was their skin, the smell of them mixed together.

“Keep breathing,” Chris said.

Then he felt it, moving inside of his bones. He squeezed his hands against Peter’s back and pressed harder to his shoulder. Chris’s cooler hand moved down his ribs, slow and calm against the heat of Peter’s body.

“Don’t fight it,” Peter said, pulling him back by his hair enough to look in his eyes. “I’ll be right behind you. You’re fine. Chris is here. He’ll watch us.”

“It’s going to hurt.”

“No it won’t,” Peter said before kissing him between his eyes.

Then he had no choice anyway. He felt his consciousness being dragged backward. He clawed at it and realized he was digging into Peter’s skin, then his wrists were in Chris’s hands and his body started to vibrate. He was mortified, but he could already feel tears.

It had hurt so fucking bad last time.

Then his body started to change and he realized it didn’t hurt. There was pressure. Everywhere there was pressure, but the bone breaking force he felt last time wasn’t there. Before he black out, he looked down and saw the lines on Peter’s arm laid against his stomach, they radiated black all the way to his shoulder as fur broke over Stiles’s skin.

 

 

 

On a full moon cycle, it was hard not to be dragged into the manic energy that having a werewolf in the house created. It got Chris more often than not. The wild look in Peter’s eyes leading up to the full shift was tempting, it was ruthless, and somehow relaxing.

Walking out to Stiles and Peter fucking around in the pool didn’t surprise him. He had watched them for five minutes before he had even stepped outside.Even on the front end of the cycle, there was something about the way they moved and something in the way they played that was off. It didn’t look human, but it didn’t stop it from looking playful.

After Stiles had shifted into a white wolf, Peter was right behind, shifting into his four-legged form. The shape Chris was used to. Chris had laid beside him and held his furred back to his chest. He could feel his ribcage heaving after taking the pain of two shifts. He smoothed his hands over his thick fur and kissed around his big ears gently, down against his soft temples, until Peter's big shoulders rolled back against him and his long legs stretched in front of him. 

Then Chris looked up when Stiles shifted around them. He was standing on the other side of Peter, sniffing his face and licking his cheek. Peter started to lick him back.

When Peter started to stand, Chris braced him until he was steady. He watched Peter rub his body down Stiles's side then Stiles ducked under his neck like a cat.

Chris stood up and pulled on his clothes before assuming his normal post for watching Peter during a shift in the backyard, his recliner on the patio.  He watched them go from licking each other to Stiles sniffing the grass like a bloodhound. Peter followed him like a shadow, not sniffing nearly as much. The dew on the grass was turning to frost, but they didn’t notice.

He could measure when Peter started to get his energy back. When Stiles would brush against him, Peter would bite at his paws. Chris smiled watching him do it. Usually he was on the other end of that, and it wasn’t really fun running from Peter when it was so easy for Peter to catch him.

Stiles was quick though and the first time Peter snapped at him, he turned into a little rocket.

Chris watched as Peter slammed into Stiles after chasing him across the yard. They hit the ground in a pile before Stiles was on his feet and running. He was a streak of white. Peter was a blur of gray so dark he was nearly black.

They would chase each other for a few minutes before Peter would trap Stiles against the ground and smell his face and ears. The way he flashed his teeth might have worried Chris if he hadn’t been around the Hales for half his life. Mated pairs did the same things. They chased each other like the pups did and sniffed, growled, snapped, and licked.

There was a lot of noise, but they were playing.

After mid-night, Chris put down the book he was reading and went to the shed. Peter and Stiles both followed him, sniffing at his feet and brushing against his legs. Chris scratched them behind their ears as they lingered around his legs.

“Get back,” he said, as he opened the shed doors.

Peter immediately fell back a few steps. Stiles still sniffed at the open door before Chris looked back at him until his ears dropped and he fell back to sit beside Peter.

Peter huffed when Stiles sat on his tail.

“You did it to yourself,” Chris said, before he walked into the shed.

He picked up one of the rusted traps and came back out. Stiles was at his side in a blur, nosing at the cloth laid over it.

“Get back,” Chris said.

Peter snapped at Stiles’s back paws then his face until Stiles fell back. It didn’t stop Stiles from vibrating. Then he made a basterdized noise somewhere between a howl and a bark. Chris froze before he laughed. It had been years since he had heard that kind of noise. He couldn’t remember the last time Peter had been that excited during a shift. Stiles’s tail was wagging, his chest nearly touching the ground before he snapped at the air. Peter was staring at him, but his tail was wagging. He nipped at Stiles again and Stiles snapped again before he got up and bumped into Peter.

Chris cut them off by pulling up the cloth on the cage and opening the door.

A cotton tail shot out. Stiles staggered over himself and fell in his excitement. Peter didn’t. His ears went erect and he bolted after it with purpose.

Stiles hadn’t gone more than a handful of steps before the rabbit’s screech was cut short. He stopped a few yards from Peter and even in wolf form, Chris could see the disappointment. He was such a puppy it made his heart clench. He could remember Peter in Talia’s backyard with the same expression, his parents always catching the prey first, rarely making it much of a chase. He was about to call Stiles back to him to pet the disappointment out of him when Peter picked up the rabbit and came back.

Its neck hung awkwardly from his mouth before he laid it at Stiles’s feet.

A corpse shouldn’t be so sweet, but Peter didn’t share kills. Sometimes he would bring them to Chris, but that was it. At the pack gatherings, he would snap at the pups, he had even seen him put Derek on his back more than a few times before getting too close.

A wiggle passed down Stiles body before he made the high pitched yap again.

Peter pushed the rabbit towards him again with his nose. Then Stiles grabbed it and took off. Peter snorted and looked back towards Chris, indignation seeping off him. Chris laughed before he walked back towards the patio and the warmth of the heating lamps.

By the time he was seated in his recliner, Stiles was already back with Peter. They were eating the rabbit with their muzzles so close they bumped each other.

Chris picked up his book and started to read again. Occasionally the silence of the backyard was broken by the overly loud growls of Stiles and Peter screwing around. When it was too quiet, he would look up. More than once, he had to tell Peter to stop trying to mount Stiles, not that Stiles seemed to care, but that wasn’t happening this time.

Less than an hour later, he looked up as Peter and Stiles came over to his chair. He scratched behind their ears. He could smell the metallic tinge of blood on their breath. He took a rag from the table beside him and wiped at the blood stain on Stiles’s white muzzle. Stiles kept trying to mouth his hand before he laid down on the ground with Peter.

He went back to reading, but watched them from the corner of his eye. Stiles spent a few minutes licking Peter’s muzzle before he laid down. Then Peter started to smell his ears, licking inside of them and cleaning his face with soft kitten licks.

Peter was always a groomer. He fixed Chris’s hair constantly, always smoothing it down, picking out a piece of fuzz, or straightening his clothes. He did the same thing when he was shifted. Chris generally wouldn’t let him unless he was drinking. He would wrestle and cuddle with Peter all night on a full moon, but he didn’t care for the film it left on his skin when Peter licked him. It made him itch. Stiles didn’t seem to care at all and it made part of Chris melt, to see how much Peter loved doing it, how relaxed his big frame looked nosing and licking at Stiles’s light fur.

Finally, he laid his head over Stiles’s neck and closed his eyes.

Chris watched them for a few moments before he put his book to the side. The full moons were exhausting, so he let himself nap while they napped, knowing that Peter would wake him when he woke up.

The night passed with them napping broken up by Chris pulling another cage from the shed. That kept them busy for more than an hour as fifteen field mice ran around the backyard. He watched Peter teach Stiles to hunt them. He thought a biologist would combust at this chance, to watch an alpha wolf teach another to hunt, to see him wound mice, so Stiles could catch them. Chris couldn’t help smiling with Peter’s excitement when Stiles caught his first and the puppy-like excitement that oozed from him. It was sloppy and unrefined, but it was his first one and Chris couldn't stop smiling.

He released live animals a few more times through the night. When they grew most restless, he let more small prey go. When they were hunting, it blocked their minds from what they really wanted, from the urge to hunt larger game beyond the wall and safety of their backyard.

He wasn’t worried about Peter. Peter would come to him and hide from his urges before he would give in to them. Stiles did worry him. He didn’t know better and Peter had told him about the incident the first time of having to pin him to the ground when the moon was completely full for those handful of minutes until it passed.

But he was great. He stayed next to Peter like glue. They hunted less than a few feet from each other. They slept curled up together and when Stiles jumped into the pool, Peter only paced around the edge for a few seconds before he jumped in with him.

With them together, he could almost pretend that they were just dogs. Stiles was a brand new werewolf, he should be unpredictable and violent, but he wasn’t. He didn’t act like Chris’s father always warned him new werewolves would be. He was playful, he was sweet with Peter, he came up to Chris and he licked his face and neck, he climbed onto the lounger and laid on top of him. He slept for ten or fifteen minutes on top of Chris, like an overgrown lap down and Chris dragged his finger down the soft white fur between his eyes.

He was beautiful, light gray down his back, pure white on his face legs, and chest. He was long-legged like Peter, but he was leaner. He remembered Peter being leaner too when he was younger before he filled out.

When Stiles woke up, he licked his cheek then jumped down to join Peter again. Chris let his hand slide over his thick fur before he passed out of range. 

 

 

Hours later, the TV was on low as Chris watched it in the living room. The sun was less than an hour from rising and he was starting to think about going to bed. He would have to go get Peter and Stiles from the backyard before he did. They could be trusted back there, but he would feel better with them both inside. Not to mention, a mattress would be a lot more comfortable to their after shift joints, than the cold ground.

His eyes were starting to burn when he heard the quiet beat of pads on the kitchen floor. It was silent for a few seconds before Peter came in from the foyer. His ears and tail were low. He was tired and Chris smiled as he stepped onto the couch beside him. He slid his hand over his fur, knocking the frost off. 

“Cold outside?" 

Peter curled his huge frame beside him, taking up most of the sectional before he laid his head on Chris’s lap. Chris slid his fingers through the thick dark fur on his neck and felt Peter swallow against his leg.

Peter was asleep and Chris’s eyes started to drag when he heard the quiet tap-tap of toenails again. It was a quicker pace, not slow and lazy like Peter had been. Then Stiles was in the doorway Peter came from. His light ears were perked and he looked anxious, like he had been searching for Peter, or maybe he had been afraid waking up alone.

As soon as he saw Peter, his ears relaxed and he wagged his tail.

“Come here,” Chris said.

Stiles came closer, his ears falling back more in submission as Chris touched his face and Stiles licked his wrist with his tail still beating the air.

“Lay down. We’ll go up to bed in a little bit,” Chris said quietly.

Stiles stepped onto the couch on the other side of him and curled into a tight ball. He wasn’t much smaller than Peter, but he made himself look that way. Chris petted his neck like he’d done Peter until Stiles’s brown eyes drifted closed.

 

He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he heard Peter’s voice. He opened his eyes to Peter in front of him in a pair of sleep pants. He was bent over and speaking to Stiles, who was still a wolf. His hand was cupped under his jaw and Stiles still looked tired.

“I’m so proud. You did so well,” Peter said quietly, stroking his thumb over the side of Stiles’s cheek. Stiles’s tail thumped against the cushions. “It’s time to go lay down.”

Chris scratched his fingers into the deep fur on Stiles’s shoulders before he stood up. Stiles climbed down from the couch and followed Chris to the stairs with Peter right behind them. When they got into their room, Chris went to the closet and stripped out of his jeans and pulled on sleep pants. He took out another pair for Stiles and came back out to Peter crouched in front of Stiles, who was laying on the floor.

Peter rubbed his thumbs back beside Stiles’s eyes, back to the grooves of his ears before he kissed between his eyes. He was saying something Chris couldn’t make out before Stiles started to shake. It looked like a seizure. It didn’t matter how many times he had seen Peter do it, watching a body shake that way made bile stir in his stomach. He gritted his teeth and looked away when Stiles yelped. Bones snapped dully and his insides squelched as they rearranged themselves. Then he could hear his heavy breathing.

“Shit,” Stiles said quietly, “Ow.”

Peter had him gathered in against his chest, rocking him gently. “It’s okay. It’s over now.”

Stiles fingers clenched on Peter’s shoulder as he pressed closer to his neck. Chris went closer and bent down. He put one arm under Stiles’s legs and the other behind his shoulders before he picked him up and laid him on the bed. When Stiles was settled, Chris gave Peter his hand and pulled him up from the ground, bracing him when he wobbled on his sore legs. He helped him onto the edge of the bed and Peter moved up it, taking the extra sleep pants and pulling them on Stiles before he laid down.

Chris laid down on the opposite side and put his arm around Peter, his hand cupping Stiles’s hip on the other side. He could hear Peter kissing Stiles’s face then he softer noise of them kissing on the mouth. His chest felt warm before he dragged his nose against the nape of Peter’s neck and kissed the soft fine hair.

After a long night, and a week of anxiety over how it would be, he fell asleep quickly, feeling the warmth of his own breath against his face coming back from Peter’s skin. He listened to Stiles and Peter mumble to each other in non-sense as he drifted off.

 

Stiles woke up when it was still dim outside. His mouth was dry and his head pounded. He rolled over, reaching for Peter or Chris and only felt sheets. He opened his eyes and winced at the light coming in through the blackout curtains.

“Chris?” he asked, looking towards the attached bathroom before he rolled out of the bed. “Peter?”

He left the bedroom, following a fresh trail of their scent without thinking about it. He just followed it, the way it laid over years of the same smells.

Stiles walked down the stairs and almost walked passed the office until he heard the quiet talking. He edged hardly forward until he could see through the sliver of open door. Chris and Peter were laying on the couch below the window. Chris was holding Peter against his chest. A blanket was over them with all their clothes piled on the floor. There was a slightly acidic smell on the air. The scent he was just getting used too after he was bitten. He wolf pushed forward the images of his own cum swirling down his shower drain.

Stiles watched Chris run his hands up Peter’s ribs and press to his chest before he slowly stepped back and started back down the hall as quietly as possible.

He didn’t think it was jealousy, but there was something in his chest. It didn’t quite hurt, but it didn’t feel great as he walked back to their bedroom. He laid back down in the messed up sheets that were ingrained with the smell of Chris and Peter. The room was, the carpet, it was probably in the walls. His smell mixed, but if they washed the sheets it would be gone, erased like it was never there.

 

Chris pulled Peter onto his lap at the kitchen table, arms around his waist. He kissed a line over his shoulder until he reached his neck. Peter looked back and smiled before he twisted to kiss him.

“We should go ride later,” Chris said.

Peter hummed a low noise with his brow against Chris’s.

Chris trailed his fingers up and down Peter’s spine, where it was knobby at the top from how he to how it dipped into the valley of his muscles farther down.

“Sorry, I don’t want to, whatever,” Stiles said.

Chris pulled back and Peter shifted in his lap to look towards the doorway.

“Good morning,” Peter said.

“Morning,” Stiles said. “I’m going to head out. I have a shift to work.”

Chris frowned. “I didn’t know you had to go in. I would’ve made breakfast.”

“No, whatever, it’s fine,” Stiles said. “I would’ve just slipped out, but this is kind of important,” he said, picking up his pistol and holster from the bar.

“Slightly,” Chris said, hardly smiling.

Stiles smiled back at him, but his eyes looked between them before he buckled it around his waist and stared at his feet. Peter started to stand up at the same time Chris went to pat his leg to give him the hint. He didn’t need to smell it to know Stiles was uncomfortable. It was written all over his body.

“Can I at least make you lunch?” Peter asked.

“I don’t really have time,” Stiles said.

“We’ll bring you something later or take you out. When’s your lunch?” Peter asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You need to eat,” Peter said.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said. His tone was sharp, but when he looked back up at Peter, he forced a smile. “Really, I’m alright. I’ll see you guys later.”

Then he was out of the room before Chris or Peter said anything. The sound of the front door was muffled through the walls. Chris looked at Peter and frowned. Peter stared when Stiles had disappeared for a few moments before he looked at Chris.

“That went well.”

Chris turned back to pour another cup of coffee into the luke-warm ruminants sitting in the bottom.  Then Peter was behind him, running his hands up and down his sides.

“Don’t stress. You’ll make yourself even more gray,” Peter said softly and slightly teasing.

“Like you would care.” 

Peter kissed the back of his neck.

“It’s just going to take time,” he said. “Even if we do everything right.”

Chris slid his hand back over Peter’s side, pulling him closer. He drank his coffee and Peter stayed against him, rubbing against his shoulder slowly, marking his scent into the side of his throat.

“I love you.”

Peter hummed. “I love you.” 

It felt so good to have him there. His heat and solid frame reassuring in a way that made him forget to worry, about work, about Stiles, about anything at all. The tension seeped out of his spine in a way he forgot was possible with only him and Peter in their home with the rooms quiet, and warm, with the only noise the quiet steady beat of rain pattering softly against the skylight.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild dubious consent, because of the influence of the full moon. Also warning for smoking weed if that needs to be warned for.

As soon as he reached the end of Peter and Chris’s driveway, the wolf in his head started to claw. His eyesight pulsed as it felt like nails were digging into the floor of his skull. Stiles squeezed either side of his head, drowning out the noise of the radio and the faint rattling of his dash from the idling of the Jeep’s motor.

He thought of turning around, but he could see Peter on Chris’s lap and the way they looked at each other. The wolf had wanted to worm its way between them, force the issue, and make a place for itself.

Stiles couldn’t.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, but eventually the splitting pain eased. He blinked the dampness from his eyes, the trees on either side of the drive going from blurry to clear.

His hands were shaking as he yanked the Jeep into drive before pulling onto the highway. The pressure pulled at his mind, dragging him backward, but he ignored it with the sun blaring down on the blacktop and helping keep it at bay.

 He wasn’t entirely focusing on where he was going. The way to his dad’s house was so ingrained it was like muscle memory to turn from the main roads into his home neighborhood then passed the houses he knew like the back of his hand until he was pulling into his dad’s driveway, next to his off-duty car.

John was working, but Stiles used his key to go inside. Tugging the doorknob toward him without thinking about it, twisting it barely so the tumblers would fall smoothly before it came open.

He knew why he came as soon as he breathed in the smell. It almost made his knees go weak as the lingering pain in his skull lessened. _Dad. Family. Pack_. A small voice in his head clung to those words as he soaked in the smells he was so familiar with.

He went up the stairs, leaving all the lights off and going straight to his childhood bedroom. Posters still lined the walls. His books were still on the low shelves, his old computer still on the black plywood desk. He kicked off his shoes before climbing into the bed that reeked of himself, but just the house too, warmth and comfort. So much better than the bed at his own house.

Stiles clutched one of his pillows to his chest, feeling his dark nails cut into the soft cotton as his teeth clenched. It didn’t feel like he could sleep. His stomach rolled. His head hurt. It was all better than it had been on the drive over, but he still felt like shit.

He was wondering if he should just go back when he forgot to think anymore.

 

 

“Hey, kid.”

Stiles jerked awake, looking back at his dad standing in his bedroom doorway. He was still in his uniform. He looked worried. He smelled worried.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Is everything alright?” John asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He meant for that to come out more reassuring than it did. It just sounded tired. He was. It felt like he had been hit by a truck. John sat on the edge of the bed. Stiles rolled over to face him.

“I came by your house last night to drag you out to dinner with your old man,” John said.

“Sorry, I went out.”

“With Chris or someone else?”

“Chris and Peter.”

He had learned a long time ago it wasn’t worth lying to his dad. He always found out the truth and when he did the disappointment was worse than anything else he could throw out. Stiles still stared off the bed and kept from meeting his eyes. Knowing he should tell the truth didn’t mean he wanted to see his dad’s initial reaction to anything out of his mouth.

It was silent before he heard John shift.

“You didn’t get hurt, physically?”

“No, not like that.”

John squeezed his knee. “Can’t help you with that, bud. You keep going way out of my depth with this stuff.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do if I actually made things easy.”

“No, probably not,” John said.

He rubbed his knee for a few more minutes. Stiles closed his eyes. He remembered when he was five or six and his dad coming home from a late shift. His leg had hurt. It was just one of the hundreds of terrible growing pains he got, the kind that throbbed up his thigh and down his calf. His dad had sat beside him and rubbed until he had fallen back asleep or it had stopped hurting, he couldn’t remember.

“Do you want to come down and eat before I go back to the station?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, pushing himself up as John stood. When he was up, his dad hugged him, a hard squeeze before he let him go.

“Be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

John held his shoulder and looked him up and down, the small frown not leaving his face before he walked out of the room. Stiles grabbed his shoes and followed him down to the kitchen. He helped him make sandwiches and made another for John to take for later as John started to eat, standing at the sink.

“How’s your shift been?” Stiles asked.

They talked about the station for a few minutes while they ate until John grabbed the paper bag Stiles had packed him and hugged him again.

“Stay as long as you want,” John said.

“Okay,” Stiles said, taking in a deep quiet lungful of his smell. The wolf liked him. It settled some of the turbulence in his stomach.

Before he walked out of the door, John rubbed his hand over Stiles’s hair. Telling him to keep him updated, to be careful. Stiles said the same back. He listened to the locks turn as his dad went out. He listened to his car leave the driveway then the quiet. It was too much.

Stiles sat at the table and pulled on his shoes before followed the same path his dad had, out the front door and to the driveway.

He started to go home, but the idea was suffocating. The scent of just him and disuse, dirty dishes in the sink, trash that needed to be thrown out two nights ago. It was going to stink and he couldn’t stomach it.

Instead, he stopped at the park near his dad’s, the one he’d come to with Scott when they were young and swung on the swing set until the street lights came on and they would run to their houses.

A few little kids were running around the jungle gym in puffy coats with their red faces. Their parents stood around in pairs or sat on the benches. They all looked like they were trembling. He could see their noses running.

He looked down at his phone. He wanted to call or text Chris. It seemed to get worse as it was getting darker. He watched as his dark nails appeared and reappeared from his fingertips before he looked back out of his windshield.

A mom crouched down by the playground to pull a snow cap down on her little kid’s head. He could hear the faint ring of their voices muffled through the glass. Then his phone vibrated in his hands. The number the text was from wasn’t in his contacts, but it was hard to not know who it was from.

_You need to come home._

His heart clenched at the same time the other half of his brain finally relaxed. His house was two miles away. That was where his clothes were, his movies, his bed, his things. That’s what his rational brain latched on to, but there was no doubt where the little crackpot in his brain was identifying with those words. _Home._ The saturated smell of Chris and Peter on the couch he’d sat on three times, the bed he’d slept in twice.

His chest was fucking killing him.

He could see Peter sitting on Chris’s lap at the breakfast table, his arms around his neck, looking down at him with that faint sweet smile. He had seen that same stupidly sweet smile on his mom’s face when she looked at his dad. He could smell that scent that had been bone flinchingly perfect. Remember how he had wanted to dog pile them, but kept it back because they were so fucking perfect.

They had both done such fucked up shit, but they loved each other so much. It made him ecstatic and it broke his fucking heart.

Not that it fucking mattered, because he had to go out there. His eye sight was flickering. He felt sick. It wasn’t an option. He was still staring at his darkened phone screen when the orange glow of the streetlight came on, glaring back at him and drowning out the bright yellow of his own eyes.

 

 

 

It was getting dark when Chris crouched by the creek that ran on the front quarter of their property. The blood on his knuckles ran off as he scrubbed, tinting the clear water red. A large cottontail laid beside him, it’s back leg crooked from being caught in the trap. Its neck was bent from the quick twist he gave it.

A twig snapped across the bank, he looked up and met Peter’s blue eyes in his wolf’s black face. He stared before he drank from the shallow muddy water. The purple and red hues of sunset barely reached them as Chris stood and dried his hands on his jeans before grabbing the rabbit by its hind legs.

There was a faint splash and a skidding of pebbles before Peter was beside him. Chris ran his thumb over one of his ears before Peter loped ahead of him, his nose down and his feet nearly silent.

Chris followed after him, keeping a far enough distance that whatever Peter was tracking wouldn’t be spooked. Occasionally he saw a flash of his tail or ears in the underbrush far ahead, just enough to know he was following in the right direction.

It was still a half hour from full sunset, but in the trees it was darker. The purple red light hardly penetrated, throwing long twisted shallows on the tangles of thorns and branches. It had been a few minutes when Chris stopped and listened for Peter. A crow cawed behind him, answered by another. He was about to call out when a howl raised the hair on the back of his neck.

He laughed slightly, taking a step forward. Then he heard the rustle of brush around him, but it was too dark to see anything.

“Peter,” he warned.

He saw a low branch move to his other side and rolled his eyes before he started making his way back toward the driveway as quickly and carefully as he could.

Even knowing it was Peter, every hair on his arms felt like it was standing. His palm tingled for the weight of his pistol, after so long it still did, but he ignored it and focused on keeping his pulse calm and even. He heard every snap of a twig behind him, the swish through the underbrush that may be Peter’s tail or something else entirely.

When he saw the road, he took a deep breath, pausing before he bolted, reaching the flat ground. A moment later, he heard a crash of brush before he could hear the beat of Peter’s paws on the hard packed dirt. He didn’t have to look back to see where he was. His imagination fueled his hot breath on the back of his thighs and the streamline movements of his huge frame.

As soon as they reached the yard, Peter’s weight slammed into his back. His snarl still made his heart hammer and when he rolled over to see his lips peeled back from his long white teeth, he laughed. He pushed Peter’s muzzle and Peter made a loud growling noise as he mouthed his hand.

“You think you’re so mean,” Chris said, wrapping one arm around Peter and flipped them. “Think you’re going to eat me.”

Peter made another noise like he shifted into a bear instead of a wolf. He snapped at Chris’s face, still inches away from making contact as he rolled on his back, pushing him with his paws. Chris ruffled the fur on either side of his face before giving him just enough room to get up. Peter ran in circles around him, stopping a few times to drop to his chest with his ass in the air before Chris started toward him, then he would take off again.

They wrestled repeatedly, broken up by Peter running around like an idiot before Chris caught him again. When they were both breathing hard, Peter shifted in his arms, mostly sitting on his lap. He panted against Chris before he turned his slightly dirty face in against him and licked up his cheek.

Chris laughed and pushed his face away before he kissed his cheeks in the annoying way Peter pretended to hate. Peter flashed his canines before he wallowed his face against his shoulder. He snaked his arms under Chris’s coat, but otherwise seemed perfectly fine to just sit as the temperature dropped lower. Chris hid his own cold face against Peter’s cheek.

“Stiles,” Peter said after a few moments of sitting in the quiet.

“We should go get him,” he said.

“No, he’s pulling into the driveway.”

Peter pushed himself up and went to the porch, pulling on the sweats he left on the railing. Chris stood up, wincing as his knees popped. Peter brushed his hands over his chest, knocking pieces of grass and dirt from his shirt then running his fingers through his hair.

Then Chris could hear the rattle of Stiles’s Jeep and squeezed Peter’s wrist gently. Peter frowned until he looked away from him at the Jeep. As soon as Stiles parked, he flung open the door. His face was pale in the glow of the house as he sank back against the door. Peter went closer and held his cheek. He said something that was only a mumble when it reached Chris. Then Stiles was hugging him. Even in the low light, Chris could see the darkness of his unnatural nails and how tightly his eyes were clenched.

What skin Chris could see of Stiles’s was trembling. He slid his hand up his shoulder and rubbing his fingers into the tense muscles of his neck.

 “This fucking sucks,” Stiles said.

“It’s okay,” Peter said.

“This isn’t going to work, but it won’t let me stay away,” Stiles said.

Peter met Chris’s eyes over Stiles’s head. He frowned with his eyes deep purple before he buried his face against Stiles’s hair. Small beads of blood were welling on Peter’s back where Stiles’s fingernails pricked. Chris leaned forward and kissed the side of his head.

“We would’ve loved for you to stay here. We just wanted to give you space,” he said.

Stiles just pressed closer to Peter, clutching his shoulders like he was afraid of him getting an inch away.

“You have to stop running, little wolf,” Peter said quietly, his voice vibrating just enough to not sound entirely like himself.

Stiles growled softly before he pulled away. His eyes were glowing yellow. Chris held the back of his neck, rubbing into the muscles on either side. He held eye contact and kept rubbing, keeping his heart beat and breathing even until Stiles blinked and his eyes were brown again.

“That’s better,” Chris said softly.

Then Stiles thumped against his chest. He tucked his face against his neck, holding him almost the same way he had been holding Peter. Chris rubbed his cheek against his hair and felt Stiles little soft growl. It wasn’t threatening, just vocalizing. Chris kissed his temple.

“Come in,” Peter said, taking Stiles’s hand. “I have something that’ll help.”

Chris followed them up the stairs, looking at how Stiles had Peter’s hand between his. He watched Stiles’s eyes flash before he leaned in and licked Peter’s neck. Peter just angled up his chin and let him as they stepped into the warmth of the house.  

 

 

 

Stiles followed Peter into the kitchen, watched him grab something from the counter before he took Stiles’s hand again and pulled him to the back patio. Outside the moon was rising, starting to color the yard. The pool motor hummed quietly. He stared and couldn’t tell what was looking of his eyes more. He already felt so much better. Peter was there, Chris was just inside. He could breathe. Then he smelled the stench of weed, clouding the scents of salt in the pool water and the cold air.  

“I can’t smoke. We have drug tests,” Stiles said.

“You’ll exhaust it from your system before it’s an issue,” Peter said. “It’ll keep you from shifting though, keep your calm.”

Stiles watched Peter light the end of a one-hitter, the end glowing cherry red before he breathed out a long cloud of smoke. He thought of the wet grinding noise of his own body as it contorted, the pressure on his bones and joints. He didn’t want it so badly it made him feel weak.

He took small pipe when Peter gave it to him, the thin metal still hot from the lighter. The first hit hurt. It burned the back of his throat and made him cough, his mouth flooding with saliva. The taste hit him hard, sitting in Lydia’s dad’s shed that was more like a guesthouse with Scott, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica. He could picture the pink bong they used to use and the smell of wood chips mixed with smoke and sweat.

“Here,” Peter said, taking it from him and lighting it again. He inhaled hard as he stepped toward Stiles and Stiles took a step back until he met the exterior wall of the house.

When Peter leaned forward and Stiles caught on, opening his mouth, and sealing his lips to Peter’s, sucking the air and smoke from his lungs. When he pulled away, Stiles exhaled, tilting his chin up to blow it over Peter’s head. Peter brushed his nose against the side of his throat.

“Poor little cop lungs,” Peter said.

“Fuck you.”

He felt Peter smile against his skin before he leaned back.

The rock siding of the house was digging into his back, but Peter’s thighs were pressed against his, his hips barely touching. Stiles let his hand rest on the slope of his ass. He watched Peter take another drag. On the next, he pressed his lips to Stiles’s again and let him draw out the damp warm smoke that didn’t scorch his throat.

“How do you feel?” Peter asked.

His head was swimming slightly. The moon was gorgeous behind Peter, out of the eve of the porch. It was making the grass white. Images shot behind his eyes of the night before. He could feel his teeth closing on Peter’s thin legs, Peter’s weight pressing him into the ground, the feel of his tongue as he cleaned the blood from his face.

He tilted his head against the wall. Peter leaned forward, Stiles’s hand shifting against his shoulder until he was pulling him closer, his eyes fluttering closed as Peter started to kiss the side of his neck.

He could smell Peter through his wolf’s nose, but he was right there, filtering through the smells with it, letting the rapid shifting of mental images flow over him. The near whine of _alpha, alpha, alpha_ , mixed with _Peter._ The image of the man he kissed last night in bed, that kissed him over and over, soft careful kisses mixed with, _so proud, you did so well_ , flashed with the huge black wolf.

“How do you feel?” Peter asked, pulling away enough to look in his face.

Stiles nodded even though it didn’t answer Peter’s question. It just felt like the right thing to do. “Better,” he said.

“We wanted you here,” Peter said for the second time that night. The light from inside shone on his face, giving Stiles enough to see the sincerity. “I’m sorry if we made you uncomfortable. That isn’t what we wanted.”

“I need to get over it. You’re married. I’m just going to have to fit where I fit,” Stiles said. Through the high, it still pressed on his chest. He didn’t want to be an outlier. He didn’t want to be disposable.

Then the door slid back and Chris came out. He glanced at them then held out his hand. Peter gave him the pipe and dugout without words. Peter moved closer until they were touching from their shoulders to their thighs. Stiles met Chris’s eyes over Peter’s head before he hugged Peter, burying his nose against his shoulder.

The stupid fucking dog in his head had wanted this all day.

He smelled like Chris. Like he and Chris had just ground against each other all day until their scents were so matted together they were indecipherable. He sucked in a lungful, held it, tasted it.

“What do we need to do, Stiles?” Chris asked, as he ground the pipe into the dugout, grating the contents against the wooden chamber. It hurt his ears.

“It’s not your problem.”

“It is,” Chris said. “We can’t help if we don’t know what to do.”

“It isn’t your job to help,” Stiles said.

“You do understand that we didn’t like that we upset you, right?” Chris asked. “We don’t like that you felt you couldn’t be here with us.”

“Is it really that hard to get?” Stiles asked. “You both left the room to fuck each other,” he said. “I woke up in a fucking bed that smells so much like both of you that shit will never come out, to neither of you with me, because you’d rather be with each other, and there’s nothing fucking wrong with that because you’re married.”

Chris stared at him before his eyes flicked to Peter’s. It was a kick to the teeth. They were such a team.  

“That doesn’t matter anymore,” Peter said at a normal volume. Stiles’s felt his face burn at how loud he’d been. He felt like he was being placated. “We brought you in to this. We’re the reason you can’t leave easily. More, we don’t _want_ you to leave. Do we?” he asked, looking at Chris.

“No. I hate that we made you feel like you needed to.”

“So what’re you going to do? Not fuck each other? No touch each other?” Stiles asked.

“We can be sensitive,” Peter asked. “Obviously I’m not going to stop being affectionate with him. He won’t with me, but I want us to do the same things with each other. If you want to kiss me or him, do it. If you want to crawl into bed with us, we want you there. We will find a balance. But we’re all going to have to be patient,” he said, before he dragged his thumb against his jaw. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I put you here and you can’t be comfortable immediately.”

Stiles dropped his head against Peter’s shoulder. He didn’t want to think about it, he just wanted to be there. Peter wrapped his arms around him, one of his hands cradling the back of his head. His stomach and head didn’t hurt anymore. His chest still ached.

“Relax, little wolf,” Peter mumbled against him.

It should be patronizing, but the dog in his head loved it. It eased him into the soft disjointed feeling of the high. He rubbed his cheek against Peter’s shoulder then inhaled the scent of himself mixing with Peter and Chris.

Chris’s hand gripped his shoulder before he felt his stubble against his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said near his ear before he kissed his temple.

Stiles turned in and caught his mouth before Chris had stepped away. Chris kissed him back, his lips soft and damp as Peter started to kiss his neck with dry presses. A tremor passed through his body. Last night the wolf had been trying to come out at the same time they were both touching him. This time, it wasn’t. It was there, it was under every inch of his skin, but it was sharing. It felt like they were both touching, they were both smelling Peter and Chris, basking in the scent. It wasn’t the semi-calm of when he’d been at his dad’s. The moon was out, it was whole, he could feel it, and it felt like energy was cracking along every inch they touched. And he was still completely conscious.

When he felt a low vibrating growl against his chest, he arched like a wire was jerked in his spine. Peter’s teeth dented his throat then Chris’s hand was on his chest and the other was on Peter’s.

“Not right now,” he said.

Peter’s eyes were glowing crimson. Chris patted his cheek with a dull pop.

“Easy,” he said, rubbing the spot he had touched on Peter’s cheek, even when it couldn’t have actually hurt him.

Peter looked away from Stiles, looking at Chris as his eyes slowly faded before he barely shook his head. He stared at Chris for a moment, Chris kept his hand on his face before Peter’s gaze seemed to clear.

“I’m hungry,” Peter said.

“Then we’ll cook,” Chris said. Stiles could hear the relief in his voice. Distraction. Yeah, he would take distraction. Food sounded pretty decent too.

Stiles followed Chris inside with Peter behind him. He sat at the bar as Chris pulled things from the fridge and Peter hoovered before he came around the bar where Stiles was and sniffed along the back of his neck. Stiles dropped his head forward, lacing his fingers behind his head. Peter wrapped his arms around his middle, his warm stomach pressed against his spine. Stiles reached back and touched the back of Peter’s head before he felt his hot breath against his nape. Tingles spooled in his gut as Peter’s fingers flexed against his stomach. It felt like being in mud, warm, squishy mud. It felt so good. He felt so much more relaxed than two hits should have done to him.

“Peter, come here,” Chris said.

Stiles felt Peter growl against the back of his neck, his teeth pressing into his skin again before he let him go. He whimpered and cut it off. Chris smiled, that same shitty kind of smile he would do when he was being a smart ass when they used to eat dinner together.

“Shut up,” Stiles said.

“I didn’t say anything,” Chris said as he pushed a bag of cheese sticks toward Peter.

Peter took them, then came back around, sitting beside Stiles and dumping the bag of mozzarella cheese sticks on the counter. Peter started to peel back the wrappers and Stiles helped, the sound of the plastic tearing away filling the quiet as Chris cracked eggs and whisked them in a bowl.

“What did you do today?” Peter asked.

“I went to my dad’s,” he said. “I dropped the bomb that I was seeing both of you. Figured I’d get that out of the way.”

“Yeah, how’d he take that?” Chris asked.

“I don’t know. He was more worried that I was there.”

“How old is your dad?” Peter asked.

“Fifty-one,” Stiles said.

“How old are you, Chris?” Peter asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles cut him off. Peter smiled. “Asshole.”

“I’m thirty-eight,” Peter said.

“I know, I pulled your background check.”

Peter smiled before he put his arm around his shoulder. “I’m so proud.”

“I’ve also seen your mug shots. Neither of you should ever get that shit-faced again.”

They both laughed, then looked at each other. It was sweet. He was calm enough to actually enjoy it. He reveled in being able to do that. To just be able to appreciate that they did love each other without feeling threatened.

“When was that? Your twenty-first birthday?” Chris asked.

“Mhm,” Peter said, stripping another cheese stick of its wrapper. “I’m surprised they didn’t slap us with lewd conduct.”

“They would’ve if it wasn’t for your mom.”

“What were you doing?” Stiles asked.

“I was giving him head behind the bar we’d been in,” Peter said.

“But it was your birthday,” Stiles said. “That’s rude,” he said, looking at Chris.

“I didn’t ask him to. He’s a voyeur.”

“I am not.”

Chris stared at him and Peter smiled before Chris started taking the cheese sticks and dumping them in the egg wash. Stiles watched him take them, then toss them in bread crumbs.

“I don’t just want fried cheese,” Peter said.

“Then make something else,” Chris said.

“Where’s the rabbit you had?” Peter asked.

“In the fridge.”

Stiles stood up and slide behind him, looking over Peter’s shoulder into the fridge. A rabbit laid in a sheet pan on one of the shelves, gutted and skinned.

“When did you do that?” Peter asked.

“While you two were outside,” Chris said.

“So efficient,” Peter said, taking it out. 

"Cook it," Chris said. 

 

“No,” Stiles said. 

"Do we have to?" Peter asked at the same time. The rich mineral smell of the blood was making Stiles's mouth flood with spit. 

"Only if you don't want worms," Chris said. 

“What are the actual chances of that?” Stiles asked.

“Ask Peter,” Chris said.

Peter growled, then nudged Stiles back taking out the pan. “It isn’t worth it,” he said. “How long do I have to cook it?”

“How do you not know this?” 

“Because I don’t care to, Christopher,” Peter said.

Chris said a time and a temperature and Peter keyed them in to one of their ridiculously nice-looking double ovens. Then Stiles heard the sizzling as Chris dropped the first of the mozzarella sticks into a frying basket.

“Stiles, can you get me a plate with some paper towels?” Chris asked.

Stiles did, opening a few cabinets until Peter stepped behind him and opened one to his right, passing him a plate then pointing him in the direction of the paper towels. Stiles layered them then put it down beside Chris. He could smell the melting cheese and the oil. It made his stomach growl.

“Careful, don’t burn your fingers,” Chris said, dumping the first basket.

It was worth the burned tongue and fingertips. He didn’t know if it was the wolf or being stoned, but they were amazing. Chris laughed when he reached for the next one.

“They’re really good,” Stiles said.

“Good,” Chris said.  

Then Peter crowded into Stiles personal space so much more than he needed to to reach around him to the plate. Not that Stiles gave a shit. Trapped between both of them was perfectly fine with his wolf so close to the surface. Stiles put his arm around him and pulled him closer.

“You seem to be feeling better,” Peter said.

“Yeah,” Stiles said.

“What about the urge to shift?”

“I don’t really feel it,” Stiles said.

“Good,” Peter said, smiling before he brushed his lips over his own. Stiles licked the faint flavor of salt from his lips. It didn’t even feel weird to do. Peter didn’t act like it was, he just rolled his lips between his teeth then squeezed him with one arm around his shoulders. His eyes were purple.

They smoked again in the house. Chris half-heartedly blew it toward the hood vent, but he and Peter didn’t really pretend to care. The smoke mixed with the smell of fried food and cooking meat. It mixed with the smell of them and he felt so calm.

They destroyed the rabbit. That was the only time he slightly lost control. It was still bloody, but not overly rare. It burned his hands as he tore it part with Peter. Chris didn’t even try to get near them. Which Stiles didn’t get, because it was delicious. When he came back to himself, Peter was wiping his face and his hands and Chris was washing the bloody pan in the sink.

“You should’ve been born this way,” Peter said, holding the back of his neck.

Stiles could feel his tail wanting to wag.

“I’m so lucky,” Peter said, kissing him softly.

“You’re both ridiculous,” Chris said.

“He’s just so pretty,” Peter said, tilting up his chin.

Stiles smiled, enough himself to feel how ridiculous the other side of him was for Peter. “I didn’t know I had a praise kink.”

“Who doesn't?” Peter asked, nuzzling his cheek bone.

“His is terrible,” Chris said, nodding toward Peter.

“It really is,” Peter agreed. “Chris’s isn’t any better,” he mumbled near his ear, way too quiet for Chris to hear.

Stiles glanced at Chris, watching him dry his hands. He was going to a lot more fascinated by that fact when his own brain wasn’t being such an attention whore.

“I want to go upstairs,” Peter said.

Stiles nodded. The thought of burying himself in their blankets sounded amazing to his tiny dog brain.  Peter grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet. Chris flipped off the lights in the kitchen, then in the hall as he followed them up the stairs.

When they reached the bedroom, Stiles heard vibration, then Chris pulled his cellphone from his pocket. Peter looked back, squinting at the screen before he climbed into bed.

 “Don’t answer.”

“He was going after a coven or I wouldn’t,” Chris said.

“What do you care?” Peter asked even as Chris slid the answer key over.

“Argent,” Chris said.

Stiles could hear an urgent voice on the other end. Chris frowned as he went back out the way he had come.  

“Who was that?”

“A hunter,” Peter said, laying on his stomach and rubbing his face into the pillow. He looked so high. It was adorable.  

“I thought hunters didn’t like to talk to him anymore.”

“They might not like to, but they’ll still crawl to him for advice.”

“But why?” Stiles asked.

Peter opened his eyes and stared at him for a moment before his hand was heavy against his cheek. “Sorry. I forget that you don’t know things I take for granted. The Argents are an old blood hunting line, which probably means nothing to you, but there’s not a wolf that doesn’t hear that name and cringe. Then he’s Gerard Argent’s first and only son, so that gives him even more prestige. He was meant to take control of their line in North America when his father stepped down.”

“So it’s just a pedigree thing?”

“A lot of it is. But he’s made a name for himself. He’s been disowned for over twenty years. He married a wolf and there still isn’t a hunter that doesn’t respect him, even if they don’t like him. He retired when I changed status over six years ago, and he’s still called for consultations, they still want his weapons.”

Then the armory in the garage made more sense, the rows of ammunition that had Chris’s business name imprinted in the cardboard. The fact that he had never heard of Argent Armory when used to be pretty into guns himself. Chris wasn’t making guns for an ordinary consumer. He had a niche.

“What do you mean changed status?” Stiles asked.

“From beta to alpha,” Peter said. “That’s why things like on the back porch happen, when Chris has to step in. The way this,” he said, gesturing to himself. “Mixes with my natural wolf is like oil and water. I keep it under control for the most part, but having you close makes it come out more.”

“But how does that happen? Did you get bitten?”

“No. If you aren’t born an alpha like my mom and sister, then you have to transfer power, and most often that happens when a beta kills an alpha. Chris and I were hunting and I made a mistake. Then it was either kill the alpha and take its power or risk one or both of us dying.”

“So you didn’t want it?”

“Not at all. My natural side isn’t volatile. It hasn’t been since I met Chris. Mixing the alpha, it’s almost like being a teenager again, in the least fun way imaginable.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, touching the soft warm skin of his shoulder.

“It really likes you,” Peter said, staring at him. “I like you, my natural wolf wants to smother you until you smell just like me, but that other part responds too. It wants to be sweet to you all the time. It’s nice because with Chris that half is hit or miss. My natural half always wants to scent him and be touched, no matter how I’m feeling toward Chris at the moment. But that half seems to have more autonomy.”

Stiles rubbed his hand on Peter’s chest, watching him as Peter laid with his eyes closed before Peter opened them.

“Would you care if we took off our clothes?”

“No,” Stiles said.

Peter sat up, throwing the blanket back as he started to strip off his clothing. Stiles stood up and pulled his shirt over his head and heard Peter doing the same thing until his shirt was off and he could see him. The muscles along his spine moved beneath his skin as he bent to take off his shoes, then lifted to take off his jeans. Stiles looked down and started to take off his own jeans, pushing down his underwear before he laid down, pulling the blankets over himself.

He looked away when Peter did the same thing. He still saw a long expanse of skin in his peripheral vision before Peter was hidden beneath the comforter. It felt awkward for a split second before the heat ghosted his skin from Peter’s. His eyes fluttered shut as he breathed out. Just his body heat shouldn’t feel so good.

He laid still, staring at the ceiling with Peter less than a foot from him. It was less than a minute before Peter rolled over. He watched Peter reach out before he laid his large warm palm on the center of his chest.

“You’re upset.”

“I was. Not now really,” Stiles said. “It’s just stressful. Thinking about how all of this is going to work out.”

“But it will.”

“What if it doesn’t?

“It will.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Stiles asked, turning his head to look at him. “I would be completely fucked. This thing is addicted.”

“I’m just as dependent on Chris, and on you. I didn’t get calm until you were here. I would have felt sick like you did if I’d been alone. That’s how the relationship of being mates work.”

“Super healthy.”

“I never said it was, but I also never claimed to give a fuck about someone else’s definition of how I should take my happiness.”

Stiles looked at Peter, able to see the color of his eyes when he never would’ve been able to in the dim lighting before his bite. The feeling of his hand was heavy and warm, grounding. For the first time it felt like he could concentrate. Stiles touched the scruff on Peter’s cheek. It was as dark as the fur that sprouted all over him when he shifted. The images of his wolf form from the night before flashed through his mind. Beautiful, strong, _mate_. It loved that word. It was chanting it like a yap in the back of his brain.

“It’s why I can’t even summon the appropriate amount of anger for him wanting you. He was being spiteful and terrible, but if it wasn’t you… He had plenty of opportunity to cheat with others. It hurt, it still hurts, but he was hurting and you were perfect.”

“Hardly.”

“For what we need, you are.”

Stiles grunted, looking back at the ceiling. Peter brushed his nose against his cheek.

“I would’ve killed you to keep him. That’s how strong this compulsion is. It’s how I know this will work, because as soon as I was close enough to smell you, I knew you were a God send and not a demon.”

“You were going to kill me,” Stiles said. It felt numbing to hear it. He thought he should feel sick or pissed, but it didn’t surprise him. It didn’t even faze him. Maybe it was the weed, but mostly it just felt so matter of fact. Of course Peter would’ve killed him to keep Chris. With his wolf circling in his mind he couldn’t say he wouldn’t have done the same.

“I’m glad I didn’t.”

Stiles laughed, staring at the ceiling before he turned his head to look at Peter.

“Thanks.”

Peter turned in and rubbed his face against his neck. Stiles moved enough until he could kiss him. Peter kissed him back, his warm naked chest sliding against his own beneath the blankets. He could feel the other half humming at the mixing heat, every brush of Peter’s thigh against his, his stomach against his. Every touch of new skin.

When he shifted to move more on top of Peter, half of him tensed. He expected a growl, but Peter did nothing, but pull him move fully on top of him until they were pressed together from their chests to their hips, Stiles laying between Peter’s thighs.

Peter was dragging his hands up and down his back, his sides, his mouth hot and wet on his.

“Can I touch you?” Peter asked.

Stiles nodded before dragging his face up Peter’s neck. He smelled like the bed, like where he and Chris slept. Like their den. Stiles mouthed at his skin. He jerked when Peter moved his hand between them and took both of them in his hand. Stiles moved down into his fist, feeling Peter push back up. He could smell their precum mixing together. He could feel it smearing on his stomach as Peter worked his hand.

Like when he had sex with Chris, he could feel the wolf right under his skin. It wanted to get as close as possible. He could smell Peter. He had been outside today. There was dirt still ground into places on his skin. He smelled like pack. _Mate._ It said it over and over again. As the tension wound down his spin it felt like a spring was being drawn.

When he sank his teeth into Peter’s shoulder, he felt him gasp and that was it. He bit harder as he climaxed, his nails digging into Peter’s hips. He felt Peter start to cum with him, he smelled it matted together. He pulled out his teeth and licked over Peter’s shoulder, tasting the hot metallic heat of his blood.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Peter said quietly.

Stiles pressed against him, smearing their cum farther. He felt Peter’s soft growl that sounded nothing like a threat. It didn’t even make him flinch. Then Peter picked him up, shifting him until he was on top. Stiles watched as he kissed down his chest until he came to the first damp spot, then dragged his tongue over his stomach. He watched a bead of Peter’s blood well from the bite of his shoulder, falling onto his own skin.

He watched Peter lick it off, the flash of red in his eyes, before he went back to cleaning him.

“I leave for ten minutes,” Chris said, stepping into the bedroom.

“I told you not to answer,” Peter said, sucking Stiles over sensitized dick into his mouth in a quick hard draw before he pulled off.

“Did both already get off?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, then reached out for Peter who was wiping one of their shirts down his own front. When he finished he let Stiles pull him down to wrap around him.

“We’ll let you sleep with us,” Peter said.

“How sweet,” Chris said, stripping off his clothes before Stiles felt the wall of his heat against Peter’s back, against his hands. He heard the soft kiss of Chris’s lips on his shoulder. He knew he was kissing the bite mark there.

“Did the witches eat him?” Peter asked.

“No,” Chris said.

“What a shame,” Peter said.

Stiles snorted against Peter’s neck. He felt the scruff of Chris’s stubble against the back of his fingers where they rested on Peter’s skin. He curled closer to them, feeling Peter’s arms tighten around him, the low rumble of his voice that may have been a growl or words. It was too mumbled to know.

It was the moon, the wolf being close, and the high, but it felt okay. It felt like everything was coming together. He could taste Peter’s blood on his tongue, feel his teeth swollen behind his lips. It was the height of the moon they both wanted him there.

It might take time, but at least for that moment with the scent of Peter’s cum clinging on his skin, he felt safe. He felt like he belonged as he listened to their mingling heart beats and breathing and felt peace, brittle as glass, but comforting surrounding them.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo. Finally posted. I am sorry this thing took so long to get together. Thank you to the people who have stuck with it. :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Active and Passive Suicidal ideation, mental break down, panic attack, delusional thoughts, self-harm (ambiguously inflicted). Please read the more recently added tags. 
> 
> I feel like this is a particularly anxiety inducing chapter if any of these are your triggers, so please proceed with caution. 
> 
> Btw, I took out the very last part of the last chapter where Chris and Peter were together after Stiles gave Peter the mating mark. Fucking WIPs.

Chris jerked. His back was stuck to the sheets, the blankets kicked down to his waist. His chest rose and fell hard as he looked around the dark bedroom. The moon had sunk, but its low glow still shone through the blinds in slats on the carpet. He laid back, closing his eyes, then immediately opening them when the nightmare started to replay. 

 He could feel the phantom pressure of small skeletons breaking beneath his feet, the smell of dust, mold, and unwashed skin. 

 He reached beneath the blankets and laid his hand on whichever of them he was closest to. He felt the steady rhythm of their breathing. He inhaled and held it until he felt their ribs move, then he exhaled. He could smell the mineral scent of the blood that had pooled on the floor, in his dream, in his memories, as they walked into the den. It had splashed enough to fleck his boots. 

 Then he could see the witch's face on the back of his eyelids. It was so dark. He didn’t realize he’d closed them. 

 He threw back the blankets and left the bedroom, going to his office, then unable to sit in his chair. Instead he went down the stairs and into the glow of the foyer light left on. He flipped on every light in every room he walked in, grabbing his tablet on the couch, and taking it into the kitchen. He sat at the breakfast nook table after pulling the blinds closed, and making sure the door was locked. 

 He scanned the news stories that had come out over the night. There were plenty of murders, stabbings, domestic disputes, child abuse, shootings. Only a handful seemed like anything more than human. Some, across the nation, had the staples, something off, something that wasn't fitting. 

 It wasn’t his job anymore, but he still kept a note tab open and took notes on locations, times, if a suspect was named, if they were caught. What creature he suspected most. Hunters all over the world were doing what he was doing right now. Throughout the day they would start calling in contacts, travelling, looking into leads, more often than not coming up with something supernatural. 

 Chris had found a human behind killings three times in his career. Only three. 

 A low glow of pride warmed his chest as he flipped through the pages. It helped level the lingering pressure.

 Even his grandpa had been mistaken more than that, not much more, but still. His dad's number was in the 30s the last time Chris had talked to him about it, long before Gerard left him on the concrete floor of warehouse, bleeding from his mouth and internally, his ribs, skull, and legs throbbing from the blow of boots over and over until he had stopped moving. 

 Chris frowned, staring at the text he had let turn shapeless in front of him. 

 The nightmares shook him. And when he was shaken he defaulted so easily. Compartmentalizing was easy for him, if he started in a good place and worked from there. When he started shaky, it was harder. He started to put his thoughts into boxes, placing them on shelves, up, away from his reach, picturing it.

 "What're you doing up?" 

 Chris looked up, not jumping, but only barely. Stiles stood in the doorway, wearing Peter's t-shirt and briefs. He was quiet like Peter now. He didn’t like that he had tried to sneak up on him. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand.

 "I'm just looking through the news," he said. “You?”

 “I have to be at work in an hour,” Stiles said. "Do you always look through the news at 5:30am?" 

 "After full moons.”  

 "But you said you weren't a hunter." 

 Chris looked up, frowning slightly. Stiles was leaning against the bar. His arms were crossed over his chest.

 "I'm retired, but I did hunt." 

 "For how long?" 

 "From the time I was 14 until Peter changed status." 

 "But you said hunters didn't like that you were married to a werewolf." 

 "They don't, but I am, I was, very good at what I did." 

 "And they still talk to you? Like last night, someone called you,” Stiles said.

 "I still consult and sell weapons.” He didn’t like the way his tone was starting to mirror Stiles, confrontational, when he didn’t understand what they were arguing about. His already tight chest was starting to feel constricting.

 "Why not just hunt then?" 

 "I need to be with Peter on full moons and I can't trust him to be stable enough to go on hunts after his change." 

 Chris didn't realize he was squeezing his hand on his thigh until his short nails stung his palm. He relaxed and smoothed his hand down his leg. 

 "He seems fine to me." 

 "I'm sure he does," Chris said, flipping to another story. 

 "Maybe you're just prejudiced," Stiles said. 

 Chris looked up from his screen. For a moment, he almost let something too cutting fly out of his mouth, but he snapped it back. "You're new to this, but don't insinuate that I'm cautious about him for no reason." 

 "Yeah I know. I'm the one he bit." 

 "That should be reason enough for you to realize how dangerous he can be." 

 "Did you know he was going to kill me?" 

 Chris stared at Stiles. His eyes were lighter up close, but even it bright fluorescent they were dark from this distance. "I never thought he would go after you. I know that has to seem impossible-." 

 "Yeah it does." 

 “I know-.”

 “You aren’t that stupid. There’s no way.”

 "Then what exactly do you think I did want to happen?" Chris asked, turning more toward him. "What exactly do you think I was planning? Do you think I wanted him to kill you?" 

 Stiles face started to turn red beneath his moles, but his eyes were still hard. "No, but I don't think you cared if he did. I think you were trying to get back at him and I was bait." 

 "Then why the fuck are you here?" Chris asked. "If you think that's the kind of person I am, why the fuck are you still here?" 

 Chris's chest tightened. Sharp pains passed through his back, but he hardly felt them over the throb of his jaw. 

 "I met you and I liked you. You were a nice way to spend my time,” Chris said when Stiles didn’t open his mouth. “I looked forward to going to meet you. As for Peter? He's a fucking werewolf, Stiles. Tell me what you think when you think of touching someone who isn't him or me?" 

 He watched the dip of Stiles's lip, the small look of revulsion. 

 "You've been a wolf for two months and that's your reaction. He was born that way. He used to want to vomit at the thought of touching someone else. Then he was fucking someone else. What would you have thought?" 

 Stiles's pressed his lips tighter, turning them white. "You hurt his feelings and ignored-." 

 "He fucked someone else, Stiles. I had no reason to think I was his anchor anymore if he could do that." 

 Then Stiles looked up at the doorway, Chris glanced then looked at the floor when he saw Peter. Then he just dropped his forehead against his hand. Everything he said were thoughts he had had, but it didn't mean he wanted Peter to hear it. 

 "I didn't know you were awake," Chris said. 

 "Stiles, I'm an adult," Peter said, from the doorway. "No one but me is responsible for my actions. Chris is right. If I could ignore my mate influences for long enough to fuck someone else, then I could have ignored them enough to stay with Chris the night I bit you or I could've gone to my family. I'm responsible for what happened. That's the end of it. If you want someone to blame then you blame me." 

 “You had to know he was upset,” Stiles said, looking at Chris, ignoring Peter.

 “Stiles,” Peter said. “That’s enough.”

 Chris stared at the wood grain of the table. He breathed deeply through his nose. He could feel his heart beating in his ears. The faint taste of bile clung to the back of his tongue. Stiles was still arguing with Peter. Then it was quieter. He could still hear them talking, but it was faint. He turned on music and tuned them out.

 

 

 

 

 Peter slammed the door behind him as he pulled Stiles into the garage. Stiles’s eyes were glowing at him. Peter could feel his teeth dropping as the last strings of the moon still pulled on him.

 “Don’t ever do that to him again,” Peter said.

 “Do what?” Stiles asked loudly. “Make him be accountable, ask him questions?”

 “Cause him to have a fucking anxiety attack.”

 “I didn’t-.”

 Peter felt the low loud snarl vibrate. The bite mark on his shoulder burned. The soured scent of Stiles starting to be nervous stung his nose, but the scent of Chris’s anxiety had been nearly over powering when he had gone into the kitchen. It was irrational. And still every cell of his body said it was wrong. It was wrong for someone else, for anyone at all, even himself, to push Chris that far. It was infuriating. It was absolutely terrifying.  

 “I deserve answers, so go fuck yourself,” Stiles said. “You can’t intimidate me into this shit.”

 “I never said you didn’t deserve answers, but _he_ didn’t change your life. I did-.”

 “He knew you would do something!”

 “Even if he did, I did it!” Peter said, his voice just as loud. “I may be half wolf, but I’m not an animal. I knew what I was doing. I made choices. I could have stayed home. I could have spoken to Chris about how badly he was hurting me. I could have gone to my sister, my mother. I choose to go where you were and to give in to that urge. That was my fault.”

 Stiles shifted his weight. His eyes flickered to their normal brown. He was still pissed and nervous. It was pulsing off of him. Peter knew he couldn’t smell much better. He was so angry he was shaking.

 “You cannot do that to him,” Peter said. “You cannot back him into a corner then hammer him. If you aren’t willing to put the blame where it belongs, then go.”

 Stiles smiled slightly, humorless. “But you want to make me feel comfortable?”

 Peter’s eyes started to burn, because Stiles was upset. Chris was upset. This was entirely his fault. “Could you not smell him?”   

 “He wasn’t having a panic attack. I know what those look like.”

 “Do you know what they look like on him?” Peter asked. “Do you know what they smell like, because that’s the only way he shows it.”

 “His heartbeat was fine, his breathing, everything-.”

 “He’s been trained not to. You have to look. You have to pay attention-.”

 Stiles started to open his mouth before his expression twisted. His face completely shifted, the defense going out of it.

 “You’re scared.”

 There was no point in arguing. His heart was pounding. Even with as much as Chris had taught him, he had never fought hard to master that. It didn’t matter to him. If his family knew what he felt, his friends, he wasn’t afraid of them knowing.

 “Why are you-,” Stiles said. “You’re scared of him being upset.” 

 “I don’t like it,” Peter said.

 “No, you don’t _not like it_ , you’re scared of him being upset. Why?”

 Peter gritted his teeth, staring at Stiles. It wasn’t his place, but it was his fault that Stiles was here.

 “Why would I be afraid of him being upset, Stiles?” Peter asked.

 Stiles looked around the room, the gun cages on the walls, slowly, thinking before he looked back at Peter. He somehow looked confused and like items were falling in to place all at the same time.

 “Is he-. Has he tried to kill himself?”

 Peter nodded, swallowing the cold knot forming in his throat. “I don’t know how many times.”

 “Actual attempts?”

 “Once that I know of. Years ago, but he thinks about it. I know he does.”

 “Does he tell you?” Stiles asked.

 “He hasn’t in a long time, but I’m not stupid. There hasn’t been a miracle. He still thinks,” Peter said.

 “Why hasn’t he gone to the doctor?”

 “He did. They put him on anti-depressants. He was on them for four years then went off of them.”

 “Why? Who did he see?”

 “He didn’t think he needed them. He went to his general practitioner.”

 “A general practitioner, for a child soldier, hunter, and majorly depressed? I think that’s a little above their paygrade. Don’t you?”

 “I was so happy that he was finally going that I didn’t care.”  

 “He needs to see a psychiatrist,” Stiles said. “Not a dude who is shoving his finger up people’s asses for half his day.”

 “If you haven’t noticed he’s an adult.”

 Stiles frowned at him then looked around the garage until spotting the old fashioned alarm clock Chris had on his work bench.

“I have to get to work, but this fucking talk isn’t over, because this,” he said gesturing at Peter, “isn’t okay. If I get my head bitten off again by one of you fucks because I wasn’t told something vital I am going to absolutely lose my shit on both of you. Got it?”

 Peter nodded tightly. “Reasonable.”

 Stiles walked toward him, then around him before turning around. “I’m so sick of this shit. You both want this? Fucking act like it.”

 Then he walked into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. He didn’t hear Chris or Stiles speak, but when he went through the door after him, Chris wasn’t sitting at the table any longer. He moved around the kitchen, slapping together a few pieces of toast by the time Stiles came down.

 “Do you want coffee and toast before you leave?” he asked, as he heard him come down the stairs.

 “Yeah,” Stiles said, walking in in the jeans and t-shirt he had worn the night before. “I’m stealing one of your travel mugs.”

 “They’re Chris’s. I don’t care.”

 “Which one is his favorite?”

 “The gray one.”

 “Good,” Stiles said, filling the said gray one with coffee and sugar. After putting on the lid he came up behind Peter, grabbing two pieces of toast with jelly before Peter felt him breath along the curve of his throat. The teeth marks on his shoulder throbbed right before Stiles kissed that spot above his shirt.

 “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

 “Yeah you should be,” Stiles said. “More about the way you two have more fucking secrets than anyone should.”

 Peter turned and leaned back against the counter with Stiles right in front of him.

 “I’m sorry about that too.”

 “Probably should be.”

 Stiles didn’t smile, but he put his arm around Peter’s shoulder and hugged him. Peter hugged him back. Peter held his nape then inhaled up the line of neck. When Stiles barely tipped back his chin, Peter kissed his neck softly then again on his pulse point. The burn of Stiles’s teeth in his shoulder ached.

 “I need to go,” Stiles said before he kissed Peter on the mouth. “Call me.”

 “I will,” Peter said.

 “Let him know I don’t want to stab him or anything. I just want some fucking answers or some remorse. Something.”

 “Okay,” Peter said.

 Peter leaned forward and Stiles kissed him again before he grabbed his keys from the bar.

 “Be safe,” Peter said, watching him go.

 “Yes, dad,” Stiles called as he went to the foyer and Peter heard the door close then the rumble of the Jeep’s old motor before he was driving away.

 

 

 The house had been quiet for a while. Chris had heard Stiles leave, but he didn’t catch him before he was gone. Not that he knew what he would have said. It was easy to ignore the pressure building in his chest with the first of the phone calls started coming in, the phone calls he expected on mornings after the full moon.

When he hung up on the last call, Peter was leaning in the office doorway with his arms crossed low, against his stomach.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You weren’t okay when you were talking to Stiles this morning.”

Chris frowned, shutting down his computer, and getting up. He left his phone on the desk with it. If he had to answer another question from someone who wasn’t giving him enough information, he was going to throw his phone against the wall.

“I had a bad dream then he came down. I wasn’t as calm as I should’ve been.”

“You don’t have to be calm when you talk to someone.”

“With Stiles it would obviously help.”

“Or he may just want to see that you care.”

“What do you mean?” Chris asked, looking at Peter, frowning. “Care about what? Him? I thought we both made that clear last night.”

“Maybe him. Maybe the argument at all,” Peter said.

“If he wants someone that likes to argue, then he can with you.”

“I don’t like to argue. I like to talk to you about things. I can’t help that too often you think I’m fighting when I’m not just because I want you to show something.”

Chris stared at the ceiling. They were both going to drive him up the fucking wall. The anger that he somewhat knew was irrational was creeping up his spine.

“I don’t like to argue.”

“No, you don’t like to talk and when someone makes you talk you get pissed.”

“Jesus fuck,” Chris said, finally looking back at Peter. “Why the fuck are you with me then? This isn’t a new thing. I don’t like to talk. I hate to talk about my feelings. You know that and you push anyway.”

“Chris,” Peter said softly, his eyes becoming even more earnest. “I don’t want to fight. I’m not trying to.”

“Then what do you want?” Chris asked, his voice going slightly higher. “I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what he wants.”

“We just want you to talk. We want to know that you care about the things that have happened.”

“I care,” Chris said. His voice even sounded flat in his own ears and he couldn’t help it. The well of anger and frustration pooled. “I need to go patch the roof on the range. I’ll be in the garage.”

When Chris stepped passed Peter, Peter squeezed his shoulder. The anger fell some, the frustration. Peter loved him. Or his wolf loved him so much that he couldn’t leave. Either way it didn’t matter. He was stuck.

The gun range had one section of rotted through roofing. He should’ve replaced it months ago, but he hadn’t made time yet. He flipped on the light as he stepped into the garage, then went to the wall and took one sheet of plywood. He measured it, marked it with faint graphite lines before he laid it on the table, in line with the wood saw.

He put on his safety glasses and turned it on. The loud whine of the blades whirl filled the enclosed space. He watched it cut through the wood like butter down the first cut, then rotated and started on the next.

Then he measured the first finished section. He cussed and moved it off the table when it was over two inches too wide. He leaned over, measuring more closely, staring at the faint line of the graphite was he lined it up.

When that one came out well, he started on the next. When he cut that one short, he shoved that board off the table, and grabbed the next. The day was fucked. He knew it was fucked when he couldn’t cut a piece of fucking wood.

The thoughts of what Stiles had said that morning started to creep in.

At first he shoved them back, focusing on his work.

But they crept in like gas fumes.

He had let his feelings get in the way. He let his hurt feelings for Peter skew his logic. Of course Peter would have gone after Stiles. He was a wolf. He knew they needed their pack, their anchor, and a connection with their wolf. Three things. He knew that. He had known it since he was a child.

His father’s voice echoed in his head. “ _Foolish._ ”

It was foolish and his foolishness had nearly gotten Stiles killed. His tight chest throbbed. He was so young. He was beautiful, smart, sarcastic, and because of fuck up, he had nearly lost his life.

It was his fault.

Peter could step in all he wanted and he let him, because he was a coward.

He was a pussy and couldn’t take up for himself.

He needed Peter to do that for him.

To protect him from the results of his actions.

Because he was weak.

He let his feelings get to him.

Even after this long, he let them get the best of him.

He let them make him foolish.

He felt the moment the blade caught on his skin and jerked, slicing into the flesh of his forearm. On instinct he yanked back. For a split moment, he could see the purple-blue valley cut into his flesh before blood began to pump from it. It gushed over his skin, falling on his work bench, the concrete, his jeans.

The throb beat hot and searing into up into his arm.

It was consuming.

“Chris?” Peter asked as he pulled open the garage door. “Fuck,” he said, taking his arm, in his hand, his eyes going to the table saw. Somehow he had remembered to turn it off. It was covered in his blood.

 “Super glue,” Chris said, pulling his hand away and holding the wound closed with his other. His blood was tacking to his palm.

“Get in the car. I can take you to the hospital.”

 “I’m not going to the fucking hospital.”

Peter glared at him before yanking open the drawers of his tool cabinet before he came up with the tube. Chris took it with his uninjured bloodied hand and squeezed a thin stream of glue on one side of the messy seam until he forced the edges to together. Then he felt Peter’s hands on his, pressing down, applying pressure. When he saw the black veins begin he tried to pull away.

“I’m fine.” 

“Just let me-.”

“Peter.”

Peter’s lips wrinkled back from the sharp drop of his teeth as his eyes flashed red. “Stop.”

When the superglue took hold, Peter held his hand, looking down at it. When he looked up, his eyes were the cold ice blue. Completely human. They were accusatory. The hair on the back of his neck rose as bile turned in his stomach.

 “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Peter grabbed the cord for the saw and yanked it from the wall. Then he looked to the side, where guns lined the walls, knives, and razors were in all of the cabinets and drawers. “Go inside, please.”

“I’m not finished.”

“Chris,” Peter said.

Chris saw just enough of his eyes to see they were wet. It felt like his chest was too small. He couldn’t breathe. He moved passed Peter into the house. Both of his hands were covered in blood, his shirt, and jeans. He could smell it drying. He focused on the pain in his arm, the hot pulsing throb and burn of it.

The compartmentalizing failed when the shelves came loose. When the neatly boxed thoughts hit the imagined floor of the brain.

Then he couldn’t even imagine the boxes. He couldn’t picture putting the lids back on them. His chest was so tight. His eyesight was pulsing as he climbed the stairs. The hallway was like a tunnel. It was bright. The morning was clear and blue, but it felt dark. It jarred with the beat of his pace.

He went into the bedroom and went to his bedside table. Blood was still seeping from his arm. He felt it creeping slowly down his wrist and down his fingertips. He pulled open the drawer with his free hand.

It wasn’t how he wanted.

He had plans. There was always a plan. A plan he had always backed out on, but there was always a plan. It was never so spontaneous. That was his mistake. He thought too much. If he just did it, then there would be no more. It would be over.

He took the weight of the 1911 in his hand, feeling the cold textured grip in his palm.

Then the garage door close downstairs. He heard Peter on the stairs and slammed the bedside drawer closed, going into the bathroom to wash off the blood, to stop bleeding on the carpet. To breathe, because he couldn’t fucking breathe.

_He wouldn’t care._

_He has Stiles._

_You’re such a piece of shit. He wouldn’t fucking care._

_You’ve made them both hate you._

_You’re good at that, making the people you love hate you._

Chris sat on the edge of the tub as the dark glow around his sight pulsed and he heard Peter come into the bedroom.

 

 

Peter walked into the master bathroom, following the sharp burning smell of panic. It was deeper than the anxiety in the kitchen earlier. This was fuller. This was coming through a fracture. He held his breath. Chris was sitting on the edge of the bathtub. There was still blood on his arm. He was shaking.

 “Chris,” he said.

 His heart clenched when Chris’s back heaved. What little he could see of his face was red.

 “Love, Chris,” Peter said, kneeling in front of him, moving his legs apart. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay, breathe.”

 He slid his hands up Chris’s thick neck. He wasn’t breathing. He was holding it, then drawing small inhales, before jagged gasping breaths that left his lungs too quickly. Peter slid his hand up Chris’s shirt laying it against his chest.

 When he had drawn pain from John’s chest after his surgery, there had been a precise area. A sore place. This was a bloated, moving, mass. It shifted and changed. It clung to Peter’s pressure like mud, dragging the warmth from him. Peter kissed his neck like he would lick him if he were in his other body.

 “It’s okay. Please breathe,” he said, drawing what pain and pressure he could off of Chris’s chest, but it was like a landslide. Anything he took was just being filled, over and over again. It was starting to hurt him. It took so little of doing this to make his own chest feel like it was being crushed. “Chris, please,” he said, his own eyes and throat burning as his voice caught.

 Then Chris’s arm was around him, dragging him closer, crushing him against his chest. Peter hugged him hard. He understood the need for pressure. It felt like if house could just sit on his chest it would help. He squeezed Chris as hard as he could without breaking his ribs or reducing his little oxygen.

 Chris sagged against him. His face was wet against the side of his neck. Peter turned in, trying to kiss it away, but his face was drenched.

 “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay, I promise,” Peter said, babbling against Chris’s cheek.

 “I want to blow my fucking head off,” he said, clutching Peter’s shoulders. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t. Peter.”

 His voice broke on his name and Peter bite his shoulder as he felt his heart rip in two. Chris could barely speak he was crying so hard.

 “No,” Peter said when he could speak. “I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry you’re hurting.” 

“Call someone. Get the guns out of the house. I can’t. Don’t let me go.”

 Peter dug in his pocket, reaching for his phone. He only looked up enough to look at his blurry screen through the tears. His dad’s number was easy to find and he hit it quickly. He answered, like his mother didn’t, because she never kept her fucking phone on her.

 “Peter, how are you?” his dad asked. Of course he must be feeling something. He knew something was wrong, Peter could hear it in his voice.

 “Come get his guns, please,” he said with as little shake to his voice as he could. “We need them gone now.”

 “Of course,” his dad said. Not surprised. Hurt. He sounded almost as hurt as Peter felt. “Tell him we love him.”

 “Thank you.”

 “I love you.”

 “I love you too,” Peter said before he hung up, tossing his phone away to hold Chris as closely as he could.

 “They know I’m fucked up. I’m so fucking sorry, Peter.”

 “Stop. They love you. We all love you so much.”

 “I’m so sorry.”

 “Don’t be, because you’re going to be good. You’re going to let me help,” Peter said, rubbing his tear-covered cheek against Chris’s head. “You have to let me help this time.”

 “Just do it,” Chris almost whispered. “I can’t do this anymore. I’ll do whatever you want. Just do it. If it doesn’t stop-. It has to stop.”

 “I know,” Peter said. “Thank you,” he said, kissing the side of his face. “Thank you for letting me help. Now give me time. You can’t do anything while I’m trying.”

 When Chris didn’t say anything, Peter pulled away enough to look him in the face.

 “Promise me.”

 Chris started to speak before large tears fell from his ducts. “I can’t-.”

 “Chris,” he said between his teeth. “You have to promise.”

 “I’ll try,” Chris said before he touched Peter’s face. His palm matted tears to his cheek. “I love you. Just don’t leave me alone.”

 “I won’t,” he promised.

 He was glad Chris couldn’t hear how hard his heart was beating, that he couldn’t smell how nearly incapacitated with fear he was. He clung to Chris for a long time and Chris held him as tightly, even when Peter began to finally pull away to get a wash cloth. He wetted it under the sink tap and wiped Chris’s arm until the thick layer of blood was gone.

 “I need to lay down,” Chris said after. He said it like it was the biggest weakness he could utter.

 Peter pulled him up and walked with him into the bedroom. He watched Chris pull off his t-shirt. Sweat broke out over his skin when he saw the blood on the bedside table, the drawer still slightly gapped. Peter gently pressed it closed and Chris looked back at him, barely meeting his eyes before looking away, toeing off his shoes, and pushing out of his jeans before crawling into bed. His face was red. He could smell his anxiety climbing again.

 “I’m sorry,” Chris said.

 In their bedroom. In a moment of panic. Peter swallowed down another lump in his throat like vomit.

 “Just don’t,” Peter said before he laid down with Chris. Chris slid his hands under his shirt. Peter laid his hand over Chris’s hand, drawing out the anxiety and pain he could. He couldn’t think of anything to say and soon he felt Chris’s breathing grow deep and even.

 He heard the front door come open, the roll of the garage door. He tried to stop listening then as he knew his family took care of what needed to be done while he stayed with Chris. It took them more than ten minutes before he heard faint footsteps on the stairs.

He carefully pulled out of bed, took the handgun from the bedside table, then the one from the hallway. When he came out, Chris was watching him, his eyes red.

 “Are there any more in the house?”

 “No,” Chris said.

 “Promise.”

 “I promise.”

 Peter stepped out into the hall where he could hear his parents waiting. He didn’t look them in the eye as he ejected the clips from the handguns and unloaded the chamber. His mother held out her hands for them, tucking both of them away in her bag.

 “I brought these,” his dad said, holding out his hand.

 Peter cupped his palm to take the pills. Small and blue. Xanax.

 “I spoke to Dr. Deaton on the way over. I didn’t know if he wanted an appointment, if he did I didn’t want to waste any time. He’ll come in before his office hours to see him if you want.”

 Peter clenched his teeth, hot tears burning his eyes. They started to fall freely. “Thank you.”

 “This will be good,” his mom said, squeezing his arm.

 Peter sniffed then felt a hot hard sob, avoiding their eyes before they were both hugging him.

 “I can’t lose him.”

 “You won’t,” his dad said. “Sometimes people have to reach the bottom before they realize they’ve been falling. He’s needed to do that for so long, Peter.”

 His father squeezed the back of his neck. His and his mother’s scent mixed in a single way that matted into the smell of nostalgia. He inhaled deeply as he felt his mother’s hand on his back. When they pulled away, his dad kissed his forehead and his mom hugged him again.

 “Call if you need anything,” she said.

 “I will,” he said.

 Then his parents started back down the hall. For a moment, he felt the childish urge to follow them. To get away from the scent of Chris’s blood burned into his nose and image of him killing himself. He swallowed down the bile it pressed against the back of his throat. When he felt the prickles of urge to vomit slow, cooling to sweat on his skin, he went back into the bedroom.

 Chris was on his side, facing the door. He opened his eyes as Peter came in and closed the door softly. Peter laid down beside him, pulling him against his chest. Chris pressed against his throat.

 “Tomorrow morning at seven,” Peter said. When he didn’t get an answer low anxiety pulsed in his chest. “You’ll still go won’t you?”

 “Just go with me. Don’t give me a choice.”

 “Okay,” Peter said, kissing Chris’s face. He was crying again. Anxiety was pulsing from him. He shifted until he had the small pills in his hand. “Xanax.”  

 Chris opened his mouth and Peter put one on his tongue, watching him flinch as he dry swallowed. Peter offered him the stale water on the bedside table and Chris took it, drinking until it was empty. Peter put the glass back on the table before laying his neck. Chris’s eyes were closed, his dark lashes against the gray places beneath his eyes. Peter kissed between his brows, breathing in the smell of his skin like it would be the last time, committing the nameless scents that made him to memory. New hot tears broke from beneath his eyelids.

 “Don’t cry,” Chris said softly.

 Peter felt fresh tears in his ducts as he dragged his thumb beneath the beautiful clear blue of Chris’s own. For a moment, the image of half of his head gone was nearly enough to make him pull his hand away.

 “You can’t know how much I love you,” he said.

 “It’s the only reason I’ve made it this long,” Chris said. “I’m just so tired,” he almost whispered. “I fuck my life repeatedly and I can’t get out. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

 It hurt. Even knowing that Chris’s words and intentions weren’t meant to barb, even knowing that he was sick. The self-doubt crept in. Chris was successful. He was wealthy on his own. The people he let know him loved him. The people that only knew the shell of Chris liked him. He didn’t have a bad life. He had a good life.

 “We have a good life,” Peter said. “We’ve had our times, but it’s been good.”

 “I know and I can’t-. I’m never happy,” Chris said, his own tears starting again. “I’m never happy,” he said again, like it was a revelation.

 Peter pressed his forehead to Chris’s, closing his eyes. Chris’s warm hand closed on his wrist.

 “I ruined his life, Peter,” he said softly. “I dragged him into this.”

 “I bit him.”

 “You never would have if I wasn’t such a piece of shit to you,” Chris whispered. “I’m so sorry. I-. There’s something wrong with me. Normal people can’t feel this way. They don’t do this to the people they love and I just kept letting myself do it. I never tried. I didn’t try to help you. I didn’t care, but I did. I saw myself hurting you and I cared, but-,” he stopped then. His eyes were closed the entire time, his hand squeezing tighter on his wrist. “You should have left me. I don’t know why you’re still here.”

 “I know you.”

 Chris opened his eyes again, staring at him like he had been staring at him before. Peter could almost feel the tracing of his eyes over his skin, like he memorizing. Then he touched Peter’s chin, following his lower lip with his thumb.

 “I’ve always loved you. Even when I know it didn’t feel like it.”

 “I know,” Peter said with more confidence than he had felt in years.

 When Chris moved toward him, Peter lifted his chin, and let Chris settle against his throat again, his soft breathing grazing his skin. Peter ran his fingers through his hair, letting the movement stir his scent and breathing it in until it was all he could smell. The scent of his husband warm and alive in his arms, in their bed, in their home.

 

 

 

Chris had been asleep for a handful of hours when Peter moved enough to reach his phone on the bedside table. He turned the brightness down on his screen before he pulled up Stiles information.

  _He’s letting me take him see a psychiatrist tomorrow morning. I understand if you want distance, but I wanted to let you know._

Stiles reply lit his screen almost immediately.

 Stiles: _why is he doing it now?_

_I don’t know. He had a breakdown less than an hour after you left. I’ve never seen him this upset._

Stiles: _Fuck._

Stiles: _no one told me. I didn’t mean to do that. You know I didn’t._

_I know._

Stiles: _I don’t want distance. I want to help. If I’m part of it like you were saying last night, then I’m not letting you guys deal with this without me. But you have to include me. I have to know._

 _Okay,_ Peter wrote back. For a moment there was a guilty tug at the rear of his mind that he didn’t ask Chris before saying that. But it didn’t matter. If they wanted Stiles, pushing him away now would only seal him leaving. _His appointment is at 7am. Come over when you get off work if you’d like._

Stiles: _Okay. Is he okay right now?_

_No, but he’s asleep so that’s an improvement._

The next reply took so long he laid his phone on his chest as his mind raced. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. If Chris hurt himself while he was asleep he would never forgive himself. The ceiling lighting from his phone broke his train of thought, his recounting of every sharp object and bottle of medication in their home.

 Stiles: _Enjoy tonight. You both said you wanted me to be comfortable. So after this shit I’m affixing myself like a leach. If you don’t want that, speak up now._

_We want you._

Stiles: _ok. If you need anything, CALL ME._

Peter smiled slightly. Relief. The smallest amount of relief.

  _I will. I promise._

Stiles: _Take good care of him. I’ll be there tomorrow._

_I will. Thank you._

Peter smiled faintly at the yellow smiley face Stiles sent him with a heart over its mouth. He flipped through his own pages of smiley faces before finding the same one and sent it back. Then he set his alarm and laid his phone on the bed side. He moved closer to Chris again, molding to his warm back, an arm around him, and he listened to the sweet steady beat of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I normally don't do this, but I'm going to ask that there be no negative feedback about the depiction of Chris's mental illness. Since beginning this story, this particular mental illness have become very intertwined with my personal life. 
> 
> I am trying my hardest to get this finished before Stetopher Week is over. So that's in less than two weeks. :) Here's hoping. If you'd like to know what that's about or maybe want to write some fic for Stetopher Week, here's the link to the post. [Stetopher Week](http://tridom.tumblr.com/post/151596356789/stetopher-week-official-post)
> 
> Thanks so much guys for reading.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: A lot of talk about psychosis, schizophrenia and bipolar disorder.

Stiles woke up before dawn, pulling on his uniform pants from the dryer, still warm from getting out the wrinkles, then pulled on his over-shirt. When he was dressed, he checked his phone again, like he’d checked it when he first woke up and when he got out of the shower. Like the other times, the screen showed the same blank face. The time was only staring back at him, telling him he was way too early to go in to work, letting him know exactly how little sleep he’d had, but how he couldn’t asleep anyway.

As he was sitting in his Jeep, letting the carbureted motor warm, he gave in and pulled out his phone again. Sending a text to Peter.

_Everything good?_

It didn’t surprise him that Peter’s response was almost immediate. He was sure that he hadn’t slept either.

Peter: _Yes. I’m letting him sleep for another half hour before we go to the doctor._

_Keep me updated, okay?_

Peter: _Okay._

Stiles sat and felt the Jeep go from harsh rattling to more mellow. He could see the exhaust from the tailpipe in the red glow of his tail lights in the side mirrors, but he wasn’t focusing. He should go get coffee, but when he was this edgy coffee normally wasn’t great. Still, he shouldn’t even be in his car for another thirty minutes, let alone heading in to the office, but he didn’t want to go back into the house.

He had wanted to go back to Chris and Peter’s last night after Peter texted him, but there was a big difference between _let’s see if we can make this work_ and _you’re welcome to witness my mental breakdown._

He still wondered if he should’ve.

But if someone had come in when his dad was fucked up off his meds, he would’ve been pissed. Even if it was Melissa or Scott. It didn’t matter. Even if it wasn’t embarrassing and the stigma surrounding all that bullshit pissed him off to no end, it didn’t matter. No one was allowed to see it. Not when it bothered John enough that Stiles had.

Finally, he put his Jeep into reverse, the buck of the bear box jolting him slightly as he backed onto the road. If he was going to get up this early he might as well get some donuts, promote stereotypes, and get a coffee for his dad and Parrish while he was at it.

 

 

After work, Stiles jogged up the top steps, his dufflebag of shit bumping against his leg. He had never packed clothes and his system so fast in his life, but he paused when he reached the door. His breath was coming out in clouds. He watched it for a few moments, staring at the gray sky. Then he tapped on the door. He heard footsteps before Peter pulled it open. The gray light looked like shit on him, his eyes were red-veined, making the blue of them stand out more. He smiled weakly then stepped back.

“How was work?”

“Shitty. How is Chris?” Stiles asked, walking into the house. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs,” Peter said, closing the door.

Stiles winced. The normal warm, comforting smell of their house was off. The air was almost hard to breathe.

“He has schizophrenia.”

Stiles turned back toward him, stripping off his jacket. Peter was looking at the hallway. His white undershirt was wrinkled, he was wearing jeans, but they were unbuttoned, like he’d rolled out of bed and pulled both of them on just to come down and answer the door.

“Or at least that’s what the doctor thinks.”

“Is he in on the whole supernatural thing?” Stiles asked, processing, his stomach slowly sinking.

“I haven’t looked into it. I haven’t had time. I don’t know what it means,” Peter said.

“Has he been,” Stiles winced, trying to be delicate, but Peter was hanging on the words. “Does he see things? Hear things?”

Peter’s face twisted, like he was confused. Stiles could almost see him replaying the conversation.

“He said they-. I don’t understand. It didn’t sound like voices to me?” Peter said with an inflection, staring at Stiles. “When the doctor asked if he heard voices, Chris asked what he meant and then he just started to say how every time he was happy he kept reminding himself of all the bad things he’d done, how he didn’t deserve to be happy. Is that an illness? That isn’t just low self-esteem?”

Stiles shrugged slightly.

“Do you trust the doctor?”

“Everything else sounded right. He talked about his anger and the anxiety attacks. They talked about how suicidal he’s been. It isn’t that I don’t trust Deaton, I just,” Peter said, before he squeezed the back of his own neck. “He’s not insane.”

“He might not be, but he sure as fuck isn’t healthy,” Stiles said, watching Peter’s red-rimmed eyes glaze. When Peter closed his eyes, Stiles moved forward and hugged him. “How was he last night?”

“He cut his arm open with the table saw-.”

“On purpose?” Stiles asked.

“He says no.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No.”

Stiles hugged him harder. Peter squeezed him before pulling away. He wouldn’t look at him, he was looking everywhere, but at him.

“Then it was downhill from there.”

“I didn’t mean to trigger something. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you. How were you supposed to?” Peter asked, finally looking at him. “Smell? Even that, good luck. I don’t know-. It’s the only reason I believe what the doctor says. He doesn’t smell like anyone else I know, not when he’s upset, angry, afraid. I just thought it was because he was my mate, I didn’t think it was because he was fucked up, right in front of my face.”

Stiles shook his head, his chest clenching. “It’s not your job to be a fucking mind reader, a psychiatrist.”

“I’ve been with him more of my life than not,” Peter said, his eyes water, but not spilling. “I should have known, but I just thought that was him. I just thought that-. My fucking God-,” he said, running his fingers through his hair and turning his back on him walking in a slow circle. “He almost killed himself a month ago. He told the doctor. He changed his life insurance policies, a location picked, he went there. He almost killed himself a month ago and I was feeling so fucking sorry for myself that I was making it even worse?”

Stiles took a step closer, but Peter stepped back, his breathing elevating as he walked in a small circle with his fingers laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

“That’s not your job. You aren’t responsible for his-.”

“That would have killed me,” Peter said, turning on him. “But I don’t get to fucking kill myself if he gives up, Stiles. I have a mother and a father that love me. I have siblings that would never be the same, but what else would I do without him?”

“That’s probably why he didn’t do it,” Stiles said, watching Peter press on the center of his own chest, clenching his eyes closed. “He’s not choosing to feel like this-.”

Peter eyes stayed completely blue as he looked at him. “If I hear that another time in my life I’ll deafen myself. I understand the sentiment behind that stupid fucking platitude, but you do understand that the thought of him suffering so badly that he could kill himself just kills me more? I’d rather believe that he’s a selfish piece of shit who didn’t care. Not someone I loved suffering that I didn’t help.”

“I know,” Stiles said, forcing back the shitty inflection he wanted to use.

It wasn’t like Peter had ever seen John laying in his bed for five days at a time, Stiles hiding the meds he could overdose on, leaving out just enough that John didn’t plunge into panic attacks. He didn’t know that Stiles knew exactly what that panicky life consuming feeling felt like, bubbling in his chest.

“Can I see him?” he asked

Peter closed his eyes again, his head dropping forward. “I’m sorry.”

“You need to vent, I have ears, go for it. I get it,” Stiles said.

“That doesn’t make it right,” Peter said, before he came closer and put his arm around him, nudging him toward the stairs.

Stiles followed him up. The upper floor was completely dark, only the gray evening light coming in the window at the far ends of the hall. Their bedroom door was open, a fan humming in the corner as Stiles followed Peter inside. He watched Peter start to strip his shirt before looking toward Chris. His heart was beating hard, like looking at someone in the hospital, how they never looked quite the same.

But Chris was just laying on his back with his arm over his eyes. Peter got into the far side of the bed, pulling Chris’s arm away from his eyes and around his shoulders.

“Both of you naked?”

He waited for Peter’s nod before he dropped his bag by a chair in the corner and stripped out of his clothes. He waited to get to the edge of the bed before pushing out of his boxers and getting beneath the comforter. Chris was laying on his back, his eyes closed.

“You won the fucking lottery, kid, a fucking werewolf and a psychotic ex-hunter,” he said without opening his eyes.

“Yeah well, tricks on you, psycho turns me on.”

He watched the corners of Chris’s mouth turned up and heard Peter huff a laugh on his other side. Then Stiles leaned up until he was over Chris and could kiss him. For the moon to be so low in the cycle, the other half of his brain was still stirring, it was easy to control, but it wanted to touch, feel, as much as he did. When he pulled away, Chris was looking at him for the first time, his hand that had been dragging up and down his back stopped.

“I’m proud of you,” Stiles said. He waited for Chris to barely nod before he looked at Peter, raised on his elbow watching him. Then he kissed him too. Chris’s hand started to move on his on his back again, he kissed Peter until the very low grade tingles started then he pulled away. “So is this what we’re going tonight? Catching up on sleep?”

“I’m not getting out of bed. I don’t care if you guys want to,” Chris said.

“We’re fine,” Peter said, “But you need to roll to one side of the other.”

Chris frowned before rolling toward Stiles. Stiles scooted up enough to let him get against his neck. The little animal in his head puddled, feeling his breath against his throat. He felt Peter’s arms already around Chris, move to lay on his sides. Stiles laid his hand on Peter’s shoulder, keeping Chris between their bodies.

“I’m sorry,” Chris said.

 “You don’t get to apologize for what you’re saying it for,” Stiles said. “Just shut up and get better. We’ve got time to deal with other shit.”

 He felt Chris’s thicker chest expand against him. He heard Peter kiss the back of his neck softly.

 He scented him close to his skin, looking for the slightest anxiety, but he smelled medication. He smelled something deep and mellow as they kissed him gently. He didn’t care that the calm was artificial, it smelled mouth-watering on him as he soaked in the felling of being kissed and cared for, slipping closer and closer to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles woke up a few hours after he went to sleep. It was dark outside, his head pounded slightly from the oversleeping. Peter and Chris were still knocked out beside him. For a few minutes, he just laid there, listening to them breathing, smelling them, trying not to think and failing relatedly until he got up, pulled on his boxers and shirt before grabbing his bag by the door.

It felt kind of weird letting himself walk around their house without one of them with him, but it wasn’t like he was an intruder, he was invited, and he seriously doubted they would give a shit if he used their TV to play his game or raided their fridge. Plus, it felt kind of nice, using their stuff, sitting on their couch that reeked of them, watching the new game he hadn’t been able to play in forever load on their ridiculously nice TV.

Stiles looked back when he heard the stairs creak at passed one in the morning. He smiled slightly when he saw it was Chris. He was wearing what looked and smelled like Peter’s t-shirt from earlier and a pair of sleep pants.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked, coming to stand behind the couch.

“Playing a video game. I couldn’t sleep,” Stiles said.

“What is it?” Chris asked, squinting at the bright TV screen in the dark room.

“Keepers of the Codex.”

Chris looked at him then at the game with a crease between his eyebrows. “Why are there so many people?”

“It’s an MMORPG,” at the look on Chris’s face, he laughed slightly. “Massively multiplayer online role playing game. Basically people all over the world can connect and play.”

“That’s pretty neat,” Chris said, leaning on the back of the couch before he turned toward the kitchen. “What’s that smell?”

“I heated up the only junk food I found in the freezer.”

“You mugged Peter’s pizza rolls?”

“He turned me into a werewolf. I can eat his pizza rolls,” Stiles said, checking a message board on his game. He had scooted the couch a little closer to the TV, but the screen was massive enough that he didn’t have to sit as close as he did at his house. “There’s more in there if you want them. I only heated them up fifteen minutes ago.”

He listened to Chris pad into the kitchen, taking down a plate and the other clank of dishes before he was back. He had a bowl of pizza rolls balanced on the back of his tablet with a glass of water in his other hand. Stiles saw him take a pill from the corner of his eye before paying closer attention to his screen.

“What’re you working on so late?” Stiles asked.

“I was put on a temporary leave of absence,” he said, frowning in the tablet screen light. “The doctor doesn’t think the overwork is helping.”

“Do you think he’s right?”

“I don’t think he’s wrong,” Chris said. The crease between his eyes was deep before he turned off the screen and tossed the tablet to the side. “I already have fifteen goddamn emails. Not even replies, just new ones.”

“Jesus,” Stiles said, engaging in combat with a witch on screen guarding a river. “Aren’t there other consultants they can harass?”

He saw Chris nod from the corner of his eyes as he flicked buttons on his remote. “Or they can go to their mentors with their questions, like they’re supposed to.”

“Then fuck them.”

Chris’s frowned deepened. “It’s hard ignoring it. I like answering questions, knowing I’m solving things. It keeps me busy. I don’t know how Deaton thinks sitting around doing nothing is going to help.”

Stiles looked at Chris in the glow of the TV. He looked tired. Exhausted. The long scab on his arm caught his eye. It stretched nearly three inches. It wasn’t stitched, but he could make out the faint bruising around it.

“Maybe he just wants you to take a break and realize the world isn’t going to end if you do.”

“Now you just sound like Peter.”

“He is pretty smart. You said it yourself,” Stiles said, smiling slightly when Chris snorted.

“Too smart for his own goddamn good.”  

“Kinda like you,” Stiles said.

“With so many pots and kettles I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do around here,” Chris said.

Stiles glanced at him when heard the slight slur to his voice. It was so faint it almost sounded like an accent.

“So what’s the point of this?” Chris asked, gesturing toward the screen.

“I run around and kill things.”

“That’s it?”

“No. There’s a point. God sometimes I forget what an old guy you are,” Stiles said, bumping his hip against Chris’s foot near him.

“Smart ass.”

“So it’s like a normal video game, it has a story line, and stuff, but also a ton of side quests, and extras you can do. And it updates all the time, so there are always new things to do and old spawn points switched up to spawn new things, so basically you can play it forever.”

“That’s cool,” Chris said.

When he actually seemed to mean it, Stiles leaned forward as he played. “So the main character, everyone is their own main character, is on a quest to fill their Codex. The game is made up of a shit ton of supernatural characters. Like on the intro they show werewolves, witches, vampires, and a ghoul, but they’ve got everything you can think of from all different types of lore. The objective is to get ahold of different items that enchanted, defeat some monsters, befriend some, and you can do it all by either hunting the supernatural, becoming one, or working with them. Or you can do what mostly everyone does and do a mixture of all three.” Then Stiles smiled, looking at Chris. “Kind of like hunting I guess? Maybe? You’ll probably find all the flaws, but don’t ruin it for me.”

“The Codex is what we call our hunting books,” Chris said, watching him play. “The witch you fought earlier, her skin was gray. She was in a swamp. That’s fact-based lore from the Florida Everglades.”

“Get out,” Stiles said, pausing with the remote and looking at him.

Chris shook his head. “It was probably made by a hunting family. It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

“That’s insane,” Stiles said.

“It’s smart. I’m surprised someone didn’t make it into a game sooner.”

“They did. It’s a series of five games.”

“Someone was a smart bastard.”

“Apparently,” Stiles said. “Does it bother you if I play it?”

“Why would it?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, going back to playing, wondering around the city he was in, looking for the booth he needed.

For a while it was only the noise of his character’s feet on the road and occasionally the galloping of his mount’s hooves between fighting noise. Once Chris picked up his tablet, played on it for a handful of minutes before laying it down again.

“Does this bother you?”

Stiles looked up again, but Chris was staring at the screen, not meeting his eyes.

“Does what?”

Chris turned, resting his head against the arm rest with his arm above. His eyes were glazed in the blue glow of the TV.

“What the doctor said.”

Stiles laid the remote to the side, thinking, trying to say what he wanted without sounding an overly sympathetic and condescending prick.

“My dad has Bipolar Disorder,” Stiles said. “I’m not telling you that, like a-oh-you-have-a disease,-my-cousin’s-brother-does-too, kind of way. I, um, I was fifteen when my mom died. Before then, I had no idea he had it. I guess that was an adult secret and I wasn’t adult enough to know until he crashed off his meds. It was terrifying, to see him like that, when all I’d ever known was my calm and steady dad.”

Chris’s mouth turned down, his face washed with sympathy that made Stiles’s face warm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Stiles laughed slightly. “Not really a lot to say. I have a bipolar dad who moonlighted as an alcoholic for a few months. A lot of people have had it a lot worse. He was never abusive, never mean. I always knew he loved me. Just sometimes he couldn’t get out of bed for… awhile.”

“I never would’ve known,” Chris said.

“No, no one really would. It’s one of the reasons I don’t really tell anyone, even Scott doesn’t know. I hate the taboo around mental illness I think it’s bullshit, and fucked up, but at the same time, that’s my dad’s condition. It’s his story to tell if he wants to. I wouldn’t be telling you, but I just-,” he said, wiping beneath his nose as a nervous tick before dropping it. “I looked at your medications. You guys are basically on the same pill cocktail and I just wanted you to know that I know how bad it can get, but I’ve seen the other side too. I wish someone had been able to tell fifteen-year-old me that, that my dad was going to be okay once he got back on the meds, that he was going to be able to live his life and enjoy it.”

He watched Chris swallow hard before he looked down at his hands. The same artificial mellowing was on his blood stream, but it was stronger, like Chris was trying to panic and couldn’t. Stiles rubbed his calf.

“And I just, I guess, I really want you to get something,” he said, pausing until Chris was looking at him, his eyes watery in the TV lighting. “This isn’t your fault,” he said, when Chris dropped his eyes, Stiles squeezing his calf until he looked back up. “If you had cancer, no one would think twice about you coughing or hurting. They wouldn’t give it a second thought. It’s the cancer. It’s not like you can help it. That’s how you’ve got to think about it,” Stiles said, repeating nearly the same phrase the therapist had used on him when he came in with his dad. “But like with cancer, you don’t just get to give in either. Not when you have people that love you so fucking much and you’re not. You’ve got your medications, you have support, you took steps, and when I say I’m proud, I am,” Stiles said. “I’m proud that you’ve survived this long with a disease that was trying to kill you and I’m proud that you reached out and got help.”

Chris looked up and his lips twisted, somewhere between a frown and smile. “Before today I thought that thought in the back of my head, the one that’s screaming right now, that I’m a worthless piece of shit, I thought that was just me. I still don’t really believe it isn’t. That it isn’t right, that I haven’t fucked up so badly with both of you that I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to be happy. I hear it all the fucking time,” he said, then he did give a humorless laugh before large tears slid down his face. “Deaton had to call them _conversations_ in the session, because I was so against calling them _voices_ , but they’re voices. That’s what they are.

“They’ve told me for years that Peter cared about me, but that he would get over me. That he deserved better. Of course he thinks I mean so much to him, but he was lying to himself, being idealistic, romantic. But then we came home from the session and I’ve never seen him cry like that. I told the doctor about all the times I had nearly killed myself and it hurt him really badly,” Chris said, more tears leaking down his face. “I shouldn’t have-.”

“He needed to know,” Stiles said. “We both needed to know.”

“Stiles, you can still get out,” Chris said weakly, “You don’t want this.”

“No, actually I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but I actually really fucking do want this,” Stiles said, smiling slightly even as his eyes burned. “I love you. I’ve loved you since before the first time I’ve said it and not one shitty thing you’ve done has changed that. I love that smartass bastard upstairs too. But if you don’t want me here that’s different.”

Chris shook his head, his lips twisting again. “We never would’ve gotten here without you.”

“You don’t have to keep me out of guilt.”

“I want you to stay, because you’re good for us,” Chris said. “I love him. I’ve loved him since I was twenty-three years old, but it’s been hard for a long time. And when we get this shit evened out, we’re both going to be able to show you what that means. I’m going to be able to show you that I do love you, even when I know it can’t feel like it.”

Stiles moved closer and Chris spread his legs letting him get on top of him. Stiles kissed him, feeling Chris slid his fingers through his hair, pulling close. Stiles ran his hand up his chest, feeling his warmth beneath the fabric. He could smell Chris and Peter worn in to it, like their own perfect smell.

When Chris pulled away, Stiles let him, feeling him drag his fingertips down his cheek as he looked over his face.

“We don’t deserve you. I hope you know that.”

“You should really stop listening to yourself,” Stiles whispered back. “Isn’t that what this is all about?’

Chris smiled slightly before he squeezed his shoulder gently where it joined his neck. “Yeah. I guess.”  

“That’s better,” Stiles said quietly, kissing Chris again until they were mostly just touching, Chris’s hand beneath his shirt and his own resting on Chris’s pulse, feeling the beat of him living. “You wanna tell me how authentic this vampire I’m going after is?”

Chris laughed slightly, looking back at the TV. “Sure.”

“Sweet,” Stile said, sitting up again and grabbing his remote.

Stiles sat and played his game, with Chris watching, and telling him things about different creatures, different weapons until the faintest glow of sunlight was coming through the curtains.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken a long time for me to get back to this, but I am back to it. Barring life being a fucker, this should be finished very soon. Most of the last chapters are written, they just need to be to polished and edited. Thanks to those that have stuck with this story for so long.

Stiles was in the break room at the station when he smelled his dad. He leaned against the counter, expecting him to be in any second, but it took longer than he thought. The other half of his brain felt like it was beating its tail, some at seeing his dad, and some at the inadvertent praise he’d given himself at its keen sense of smell.

“Hey, kid. I thought Derek was covering your shift?”

“Nah, he’s covering for Parrish.”

“What’s wrong with Jordan?”

“He’s sick? Didn’t he call you.”

“All your excuses start to sound the same after a while,” John said, taking down his mug and filling it from the still warm pot of coffee before glancing back up at him. “You look like you’ve been beat with a bat.”

“Thanks, pops,” he said.

“Not sleeping?”

“Yeah. Just not for very long at a time.”

“How’s that going for you?”

“Eh.”

“That good?” John asked, leaning against the counter. “How’s Chris?”

“Walking around like a zombie, sleeping like a log.”  

“I don’t envy that stage.”

“No it sucks. It’s got Peter freaked out.”

“I’m sure.”

“Yeah. But I think it’s kind of helping having me there?” Stiles said. “Like sorry you’re crazy, but it’s really gotten me in well with them. They’re suctioned cupped on me, like I’m fucking stable.”  

John laughed slightly into his coffee cup. “They’re in bad shape if you’re the stable one.”

“God you’re such a nice dad.”

John snorted before adding more sugar to his coffee. He waved Stiles’s off when Stiles stared at him, but put back the second spoonful. “If he ever wants to talk, I may not be able to help much, but if he wants to feel a little less crazy or something, let him know I’m good to talk whenever he wants.”

“Thanks. Right now he thinks he’s the only person to ever be diagnosed. He’s really caught up on the labels.”

“It’s not fun realizing you’ve got something they always talk about on TV, like it’s funny or fucked up. That part’s hard.”

“Yeah, hopefully. I’m just ready for him to start seeing how fucked up everyone else is too.”

“That does help,” John said. Then he shook down his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Go do a last patrol with Derek then you guys can get out of here.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, pouring out his coffee. He shouldn’t be drinking it. It was already six.

“So you’re getting along better with him?”

“Derek? Yeah.”

“You don’t think he’s a serial killer anymore?”

“The jury’s still out,” Stiles said.

“Yeah I think it was probably you trying to fuck his uncle behind his other uncle’s back, but what do I know? I’m just your dad,” John said as he walked out of the room. “Be safe.”

“Yeah, yeah,  _ dick _ ,” he said under his breath.

“I heard that,” John called down the hallway.

Stiles snorted before he grabbed a pack of crackers from the cabinet and went looking for Derek. He was in the bullpen, doing some paperwork. Stiles ruffled his hair. For a second he was shocked at himself, but his wolf was right there, wagging its tail again. Derek looked up and his eyes flashed at him in the empty room.

“Are you five?”

“I don’t know how old I am in dog years, like three months? Two? I’m a puppy. You don’t even know how happy this thing is to see you and I don’t even like you.”

Derek rolled his eyes before looking back at his paperwork.

“Dad said we can go on patrol then go home, so let’s go sourpuss.”

“I have paperwork.”

“Neato, so do I, now let’s go,” Stiles said, making motions towards the door. “I’d like to get back to your crazy uncles if it’s all the same to you.”

“Do they know you call them crazy?” Derek asked, raising one of his thick brows.

“Well one is on medication and one is Peter, so they should expect it.”

Derek rolled his eyes again before grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. Stiles followed him out of the door and into the parking lot. They went to Derek and Scott’s normal patrol car and Stiles climbed in the passenger seat. He fiddled with the radio as Derek pulled out of the lot and onto Beacon Hills’ quiet side streets. He was in the middle of changing through static before Derek shifted in his seat.

“How is Uncle Chris?”

“The same as he was yesterday,” Stiles said. “He’s really tired and stuff, but he seems to be feeling better overall.”

“His memory is still bad?”

“It’s fucking awful, but that’s not that unusual. It’ll probably even out.”

Derek frowned out of the windshield. Stiles had just found a good station when he got a weird smell. He sniffed again, then turned toward the backseat. He sniffed again and Derek looked at him.

“What?”

“Why does your backseat smell like Parrish?”

“It doesn’t,” Derek said.

The flush of red to his ears was almost comically. It happened so fast. One second he was just tan, then it looked like he had a sunburn on his cheeks and neck. For a second, Stiles was confused then Peter’s words from the carnival came back,  _ young love _ .

Stiles gasped like a teenager and pointed at him. “You and Jordan? In the backseat? That’s not even romantic!”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Ew! When? Why? How long?” he asked. “Ewww.”

Stiles hit the dash when Derek slammed the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. He put the Crown Vic into the park and turned towards him.

“No, what’s  _ ew  _ is you seducing one of my uncles then  _ somehow _ ending up fucking both of them. But, Stiles, I keep my nose as much as I can out of your business, so when I say, shut up, I mean, shut the fuck up. If you say anything to anyone I will rip your arms off and shove them up your ass.”

“Okay, first of all, you goddamn psychopath,” Stiles said, turning toward him how Derek had him. “I’m mostly joking with you. I already knew you had a think for Parrish. Peter told me. Second, why the fuck would I say anything to anyone? Do you think I find outing people funny? Third, maybe you should calm the fuck down and learn to take a joke.”

“It isn’t a joke. It isn’t funny.”

“What isn’t funny? That you and Jordan are getting it on in the back of a squad car? It’s pretty funny. A little ew, but mostly funny. And really because I didn’t think he was gay,” Stiles said, frowning at himself, because he had really had no idea. Parrish had always been a pretty big chaser of the ladies.

“It isn’t funny, because he isn’t gay,” Derek said.

Stiles had never seen Derek’s frown go so deep. The divot between his eyebrows was deep. The smell of him was awful, like he had been soaked in something eye watering, like bleach and onions. It came on all at once and Stiles couldn’t help touching his arm.

“Hey,” he said, waiting until Derek looked at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was that sensitive.”

Derek barely nodded, but didn’t move to put the car into drive.

“It sucks, crushing on a straight boy. I’ve done it a few times.”

“It’s not a crush. He’s my mate,” Derek said.

The sour, hard to breath smell, became stronger for just a moment.

“How?” Stiles asked. “No that can’t be a thing. You can’t be mates with someone that’s not into you.”

“Well I am.”

“But you guys had sex,” he said, because now that the smell had been pointed out, he knew what it was. It didn’t just smell like Parrish, it smelled like sweat, and Derek and other bodily fluids he didn’t really care to think about.

Derek shrugged. “We’ve made out a few times. We’ve fucked three times, but he’s not gay.”

“Are you guys drunk when you do it?”

“No. It’s normally on full moons,” Derek said, looking up at him from under his brow. For the first time, Stiles realized that he had really pretty green eyes. Objectively, Parrish was a dumbass, because Derek was a handsome guy. Drop dead gorgeous if people of appropriate ages was a thing for someone. “Fang can’t stay off him and Jordan doesn’t have to be convinced. If we’re patrolling at night, then something will probably happen.”

“Your wolf’s name is Fang?”

“Your mate’s wolf’s name is Buck,” Derek deadpanned.

“So your family can’t name wolves.”

“Stiles.”

“Sorry,” Stiles said, thinking hard. “So he’s all for it when you guys do it?”

Derek nodded. He looked like such a kicked puppy, Stiles squeezed his arm again and Derek didn’t pull away.

“What does he do after?”

“We act like it didn’t happen,” Derek said. “When we had sex at my house, once, he got up right after and asked if I wanted pizza. I thought he meant delivery, but he just used it as an excuse to get us out of the house. I could’ve stayed in bed with him for a week. I just want him close.”

Stiles slid his hand up and squeezed Derek’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Really. That sucks.”

“Don’t say anything to him.”

“I won’t.”

Derek looked up at him again before he wiped under his nose and sniffed hard. “Don’t say anything to anyone, okay? Uncle Peter knows, but still.”

“I won’t,” Stiles said as Derek put the cruiser back into drive and pulled off the shoulder. “But if you ever want to talk, I’m here. I mean, we might not be buddy, buddy, but we’re pack, right?”

Derek nodded.

“We can be pack buddies.”

“Fine, we can be pack buddies,” Derek said.

“God try to sound less like I’m sawing your leg off,” Stiles said.

When Derek smiled a little, Stiles smiled back.

“It’s going to work out,” he said.

“I hope so,” Derek said.

They didn’t say anything else as they did a short patrol. Stiles wasn’t sure what to say and Derek was even quieter than Chris. Soon the scent of Derek and Parrish fell out of notice, but it nagged at his brain.

 

 

 

When Stiles walked in the front door of Chris and Peter’s, he could hear the soundtrack of his video game playing. It wasn't that surprising when he walked into the living room to see Chris playing it on the couch and Peter with his computer in his lap doing the same. He could see their usernames together on the TV screen. He could see the gray tufts of werewolf fur on Peter's character. 

"So you convinced someone to give you The Bite," Stiles said. 

"No I got cursed by the shaman in the sack by that pissy little river," Peter said. 

"Were you stealing potions out of his chest?" 

"Yes." 

"And what level are you?" 

"Ten." 

"I told you not to do that until you were 35 at least." 

"Yes, well, maybe I wanted to be a werewolf?" Peter asked. 

Stiles looked at Chris, who shook his head. 

"My informants say you did not want to be a werewolf." 

"Your informant is a dirty nark," Peter said, grabbing the pillow beside him and throwing it at Chris, who knocked it away before it reached him. 

"How long have you losers been playing?" Stiles asked. 

"I don't know, what time is it?" Chris asked. 

"Seven." 

"A few hours," Chris said. 

"Is there food?" Stiles asked, taking off his duffle bag with fresh clothes. 

"Not unless you want to cook," Chris said. 

"I don't want him to cook," Peter said. 

"Assholes. I barely even burned it." 

"It was macaroni and cheese," Peter said. 

"Fine," Stiles said, before he flopped on the couch next to Chris. "Well I need to be fed."

Peter lifted up and pulled his wallet out of his pocket before tossing it to him. "Order pizza or Chinese." 

"What sounds better?" Stiles asked. 

"Chinese," Chris said. 

"Pizza," Peter said at the same time. Then Peter looked across the room and frowned at him. 

"I can order both," Stiles said. He could smell something just a little bit sour in the room, like fruit just starting to turn. He leaned over and sniffed Chris's shirt. He smelled like he'd slept for most of the day, the scent of tiredness still clinging to him, but the sour scent wasn't coming from him. As Stiles pulled out his phone, he stood back up and went over to Peter, sitting on the arm of his chair. "What do you want?" he asked before barely scenting the air around him. Peter still looked up at him and growled quietly. 

"That's rude." 

"So is biting naturally nosy people and expecting that to change a fundamental character trait," Stiles said. He smiled when it made the corner of Peter's mouth hardly turn up. 

"Touché." 

"What do you want?" Stiles asked again. 

"Beef and broccoli." 

"Make it two," Chris said. 

"I thought you wanted pizza?" Peter asked. 

The sour scent got stronger. 

"That sounded better when you said it," Chris said, ignoring Peter's tone and watching the TV screen. 

Stiles elbowed Peter. "Be nice," he said under his breath, too quiet for Chris to hear. He felt more than heard Peter's small growl as he looked back at his laptop. 

He called in their order, still sitting beside Peter. He started to run his fingers through his hair without really realizing it. His wolf was such a pushover for Peter. Pet him. Make him feel better. Be nice to him. It was pathetic, but it made something in Stiles feel good and Peter's hair was soft so he kept doing it. The sour smell getting better was a bonus. 

After he ordered, he kicked off his shoes and laid on the couch near Chris, putting his feet in his lap. Chris rested his forearm on his ankles without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Do you want this?” he asked.

“Nah, I like watching you guys play,” he said.

He watched them go on different quests for a while until the doorbell finally rang. He got up to get the food as Peter and Chris found stopping points. When he came back into the living room with food, they had it on Netflix and some sitcom they had started together two nights ago. They grabbed their food and ate in the relative silence that wasn’t that uncommon either. They asked him how work was and that took all of a few seconds. He asked how their day was, they had mostly slept and played video games. It was all riveting.

Peter finished way before Chris or Stiles and came back into the room after putting over half his leftovers in the fridge.

“I’m going to see Talia for a while,” Peter said. “If you need to leave, please call me,” he said to Stiles.

“Yeah sure,” Stiles said.

Then Peter kissed him then Chris before going towards the front door. As soon as it was closed behind him, Stiles looked at Chris.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Chris said, putting his food down and flipping back over to the video game.

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

"He's mad that I called Deaton," Chris said. 

"Why?" 

"Because I hate how these medications are making me feel," Chris said. 

"No, I mean why is he mad that you called Deaton?" 

"He doesn't want me switching when I've only been on them for two weeks." 

"What did Deaton say?" Stiles asked. 

The corners of Chris's mouth turned down as he hit a complicated series of keys on the remote. At first he thought it was just concentration, but it lingered. 

"He said a lot of things." 

"Bad things?" 

Chris exhaled through his nose, staring at the screen. The crease between his so eyes so deep. Stiles fought the urge to stick his finger in it. 

"He suggested I ask Peter to bite me." 

"Really?" 

Chris nodded, still kicking something ass on screen. He was a little worked up, but it was so muted under the medication, Stiles could barely smell it. But he could hardly smell anything on Chris anymore expect tiredness, sometimes confusion, sometimes a little fear. Something needed to be done with his meds. he was sure of that. 

"I don't want to be like this for the rest of my life and Deaton thinks it could help." 

"Did you talk to Peter?" 

"No."  

“Then why is he mad?”

“He’s pissed that I’m being impatient, but if he felt this way, he wouldn’t be patient either,” Chris said.

“It is kind of soon,” Stiles said. “Dad’s doctors wouldn’t normally switch him until he’d been on a month at least. It normally takes a few different combinations before you find the right one.”

“I know and I still can’t stand it,” Chris said. “I feel like I’m moving through syrup and hit by a truck. I’d rather feel how I felt than like this.”

“If you felt how you did, then you’d be dead.”

“I don’t want to be dead,” Chris said. “That’s what Peter doesn’t understand. Just because I want to switch medications doesn’t mean I want to stop trying.”

“He’s just scared, Chris. We’re both scared. You are doing a little better and it’s great. It’s fucking terrifying of thinking of you going all the way back to the bottom.”

“You two get that it scares me shitless too?” Chris asked, looking at him. “I don’t want to be suicidal. I don’t understand why that’s so complex.”

“Hey, don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t say I don’t understand. I just don’t understand why you can’t get that it’s all scary and no wonder he’s gun shy. He’s terrified of losing you.”

Chris frowned again, jamming the button on the remote again. “I know he is.”

“But if the doc thinks The Bite could be good, then ya know, talk to Peter,” Stiles said.

“I will,” Chris said, before breathing out through his nose. “Hand me Peter’s laptop. Let’s go run a cavern.”

“Which one?” Stiles asked, glad for the subject change as he swapped Chris the computer and he took his remote control.

 

 

 

Peter was in the kitchen after he got home from Talia’s. Chris and Stiles were in bed and the house was silent. The moon was still two weeks ago, but for a reason he had never know that two mark was when he felt edgiest. Like, his wolves knew it was still two weeks before they would be out. He let his eyes shift, let two distinct pressures push against his eyes as he put their different styles of glasses with their kin in straight lines, moving them slightly to the left or right until he wasn't embarrassed that they could be seen through the glass fronts. 

Then he started to rinse the dishes in the sink from their dinner. Stiles has offered to help him, but he looked and smelled tired. And it settled his mind to have Stiles in bed with Chris. As much as he didn't want him to feel like he was being babysat, he was and he would be until Peter was willing to release his grip. He didn't know when that would be. He refused to feel badly for it. 

He washed the dishes by hand without realizing it until he was halfway done. He decided to continue. It kept his hands busy and weirdly it settled Buck at the very least. The other third of his brain was restless, but Buck was easy to appease. He liked the small rainbows of color in soap suds. When he finished, he scrubbed the sink and cut a lemon that was nearly bad before tossing it down the garbage disposal and smelling the clean citrus as it was obliterated in the blades. 

When he opened the pantry door to put out a new roll of paper towels, he looked at the haphazard organization of the canned good. He started with the canned beans and tomatoes that Chris kept stocked like he was expecting a nuclear fallout any day. Another sign he should have picked up on that something wasn't right in Chris's brain. No one would be stocking twenty to thirty cans of beans, different kinds of broth, vegetables, and pounds of rice for two people. When they remodeled the house, he had been adamant about having a pantry big enough for a six person family. At the time, Peter hadn't cared. He had his own, incredibly mild, form of OCD. He loved a nicely organized space and sometimes, like now, if it wasn't how he wanted it, it was like an itch all over his skin, a drive to sort and arrange until it looked nice and made logical sense, even if it was only to him. 

He had made his way down the shelves to the floor where the potatoes, dried beans, and rice were when he heard Chris come into the kitchen. He was sitting cross-legged and sorting through water purifying tablets, putting them into a glass container he had found hidden in the back. It had held flour at some point, but the size of that canister had been upgraded at some point and the other glass container had been left without a job. 

"What are you doing?" Chris asked. 

"Organizing." 

"You know it's 4am, don't you?" 

"Do I have somewhere to be in the morning?" Peter asked, looking over his shoulder. His tone came out harsher than he meant, but the silence had been nice. Working mindlessly had been nice. 

"I guess not," Chris said. 

Peter continued sorting through things, pouring a bag of rice into another container and making sure it was snapped closed. He expected to hear Chris walking away, but when he looked over his shoulder, Chris was still leaning on the pantry door frame. 

"How were you mom and Talia?" 

"Fine," Peter said, straightening what had been around him before getting to his feet. 

"It would've been nice to see them." 

"You were playing your game. I didn’t think you’d want to come." 

Chris frowned before stepping back and letting Peter pass him. He still looked half-asleep. His eyes were dull. "Are you mad?" he asked. 

"No," Peter said. 

Then his chest tightened. He was, but it wasn't Chris's fault. It wasn't Stiles's fault, his mother's, his sister's. He was just angry and there wasn't anything to be done for it. 

"The moon's full in two weeks. You know how it can make me." 

"Okay," Chris said before he went to lean against the counter. He rubbed his face against his palms. The start of a beard sounded like steel wool. 

"Why don't you get some more sleep? I'll be up in a little while." 

"I don't want to sleep anymore," he said. "I'm so fucking sick of sleeping." 

"It's almost been two weeks. Everything should start to even itself out." 

"What about it is going to level out?" Chris asked, looking at Peter. He expected to smell defensiveness, but he didn't even know if Chris had that in him anymore. "Is the brain fog going to go away? The vertigo when I stand up? How much I'm sleeping?" he asked. "I don't want to kill myself as much, but I feel like shit. I didn't know anything could make me feel this bad." 

Peter's chest tightened. If Chris was a wolf he could hear how the tempo of his heart increased. 

"You have to keep taking them, Chris. Give them a chance to work." 

He knew Chris would stop if he wanted to. They had been through that four or five times since he was twenty-five. He would stay on an anti-depressant for a year or more, then cut it cold turkey, without telling him, until Peter caught the mood swings, the recklessness, anxiety, and irritation. 

"I'm not going to stop them," he said. "I'm just so tired. I know I need to go talk to Deaton and see about switching. I know they work for a lot of people, but I don't want to go through five different medications until we finally find one that works. What if we don't?" 

"Why would you even think that?" Peter asked. "Of course we're going to find a combination that works. This combination might work, but you have to give it time. You're so fucking impatient, Chris." 

"Because I feel like shit," Chris said, raising his voice slightly. "What is the point of all of this if this is how I'm going to feel for the rest of my life?" 

"Because what is the other choice, Chris?" he asked, raising his voice louder. "Do I get to find you hanging from the upstairs railing? Or with your fucking wrists slit in the garage?" 

"Peter-." 

"You don't have any other choice! Do you understand that? Is it getting through your thick fucking skull? If you do that I will hate you for the rest of my life. I know that you probably don't care about that, but I will hate you until the day I die, I swear to God." 

Chris started to come around the island and Peter took a step back. Chris stopped at the edge of the bar with the slab of marble between them. It barely felt like Peter could breath. His brain felt like a bundle of kindling. If anything else was placed on it, it was going to snap in half. 

"I want you to bite me." 

Peter pulled back even farther even as the other two-thirds of his brain pushed forward. Chris lingered by the corner before coming closer, slowly, like if he moved too quickly Peter might leave. He wasn't wrong. 

"Your cousin in Washington she bit-." 

"Her son had depression and they planned to bite him anyway. That wasn't  _ why  _ she bit him." 

"But it helped." 

"We don't know that that's what helped." 

"There are other cases," Chris said. "I called Deaton, Peter. We wouldn't be the first ones to do it. He thinks it's a realistic option." 

"It's going to make you more unstable, Chris, not more stable," Peter said. He could feel his teeth dropping and he didn't know why. His heart was pounding. 

"He said it could." Then Chris's shoulder's stooped. "He said with me, how I was raised-." 

"Abused." 

"Whatever you want to label it," Chris said. "He said I could be unstable, at first, but he's read cases of bitten bipolar and schizophrenic wolves. He found more after we left, Peter, because he knew it could be a good option for us. He just wanted to research more before he suggested it. He brought it up. I just wanted a medication change." 

"He isn't a wolf. He has no idea what it does to your mind." 

"No, but he's a psychiatrist and he's studied it." 

"And what does he suggest if it doesn't work and you're just as unstable or worse? When your wolf metabolism is going to eat through medications even faster?" 

"He can up my doses, but he doesn't think I'll need them," Chris said, coming closer, his voice taking a tone that Peter didn't like, so close to begging it hurt. "He thinks I may need still anxiety medications, but he says that all of the cases he's read the self-preservation instinct in wolves is so high that suicidal thoughts are non-existent. They've done tests on thirteen people before and after the bite, their serotonin levels are in healthy ranges, dopamine, all of it are at the levels that I'm taking fucking horse tranquilizers to achieve." 

"You won't be a good wolf." 

"Deaton said the same thing, but he said that with five anchors, I'll be okay. But Peter, he thinks the only time I'll have problems are during the full moons. The rest of the time, 28 days out of 30 I'll be healthy. I'll feel good. I'll have energy. I can be happy."

Peter went to argue, but stopped. Chris was looking at him like the next words out of his mouth could crush him if they weren't the ones he wanted. His heart was still pounding. If it was even possible, his chest hurt more. 

"Why won't you just stay on the medications?" he asked, feeling his eyes start to burn, because he was losing. "This isn't something you can stop. If you hate it, it isn't something I can take back. If it hurts you, it isn't something I can reverse." 

"I can't do this," Chris said. He was standing close enough for Peter to see the red in his eyes, the dark places where he had been sleeping. He reeked over oversleep, sweat, but even his desperation was so dulled. So quiet. Peter could smell it, but it was wrapped in fodder. "You bit Stiles to make sure I didn't leave. There has to be part of you willing to bite me to keep me here." 

"Don't." 

"I'm not threatening anything, Peter," he said, reaching toward him and taking his hand. "If you won't do it, I'll stay on the fucking pills even though I hate them, but if there's even a chance that I can be happy, really happy, without medication, why can't you just do it? Please." 

"Because what if you hate it?" Peter asked, his eyes starting to water. It felt like he was in freefall. This was what happened when everything was pushed too far and snapped. This was what it felt like to fall into a frozen lake. 

"I won't." 

"But what if you do?" Peter asked, punctuating each word. "It will be my fault, because I should have said no." 

"I'd never blame you." 

Peter opened his mouth then closed it again. He could count how many wolves he had met that had gone feral after the bite. In his years hunting with Chris, they had only come across a handful. He didn't need Chris to tell him, but he knew he would. He would start to recite that fact that most wolves who went feral were on heavy amounts of methamphetamine, they had never had anchors, or lost them. They had been disowned by their packs or extensively abused. It was never from something like Chris was suggesting. 

"It doesn't have to be now," Chris said, squeezing his hand. "You can go talk to Deaton if you want, but I don't want to do this forever, Peter. I don't even feel like me." 

"You haven't given them a chance," Peter said, hearing and feeling his voice starting to whine. He hated it, but he couldn't help it. "It can take a few different combinations. He told us that." 

"I don't want to do that," Chris said. "Peter, I just want to feel better. If that means that I'm a fucking wreck two days out of the month, I'm willing to do that, more than willing. But I won't be dangerous. I know I won't." 

"That's not what I'm worried about." 

"Then what are you worried about?" 

"You deal with emotions by stuffing them down until you can pretend they aren't there anymore. That doesn't work for wolves, Chris. Those emotions are going to come out and you aren't going to be able to handle them as a wolf." 

"I have good control-." 

"When you can be logical. When have you ever seen Buck be logical? We do what he wants, when he wants to." 

"Maybe I need that?" Chris asked. "Do you know how good that sounds? To have something in my head that wants things? Even small things? I want to want things again. I want to care. I don’t have to be normal, but I have to be better.”

He already was better. Peter wanted to scream it at him, but it wouldn’t work, because he was better. The fact that he could speak so much at a time about his own feelings was staggering. But he could smell what Chris meant, he could see it in the dullness of his eyes, and how he smelled exhausted when he shouldn’t. He knew with the right combination that Chris could feel good. He knew they could find that combination, but it would take work, patience.

Chris had no patience.

He never had when it came to his health.

With always having The Bite lingering in the back of his head, thinking of it like a magic cure that Peter knew it wouldn’t be, he would be worse about taking his pills. Peter knew him. He knew him better than Chris knew himself and he would stop the medications. He would like he had every other time. It felt like a house was sitting on him.

 

With Chris staring at him, begging him without words anymore, Peter gave in. Like he did with anything Chris had ever wanted. His eyes burned and all he wanted was to sleep.

“I’ll call Deaton tomorrow,” he said before he turned off the overhead kitchen light.

In the dark, Chris pressed up behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle and pressing his face against his neck.

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Peter said, turning in Chris’s arms to hug him. He tucked his face against Chris’s shoulder and gasped a sob that hurt his lungs. It sounded ugly in their quiet house.

“I won’t,” Chris said, pulling him closer. “I’m so sorry. I want to stop putting you through this. I want it to be over.”

“You aren’t putting me through anything,” Peter said, even as hot tears slid down his face.

“Yes I am and I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry,” Peter said. “Just don’t make me regret it. Please,” he said again.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“On me?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I promise on you, you won’t regret this.”

Peter said his cheek against Chris’s shoulder and his chest barely released. Chris had always been hard to live with, but Chris had never broken a promise on his life. Sometimes he may skirt the meaning or twist it to avoid breaking it, but he had never outright broken a promise to him like that in twenty years. It was childish and stupid, but Peter held on to Chris and let the promise sooth him for the few hours it could. 

 


	20. Chapter 20

When Stiles woke up, it was almost eight in the morning, but the sky outside still looked miserable. He was about to roll over and go to sleep again when he looked behind him and realized Peter wasn’t there. Chris was sprawled on his other side. Stiles slid up behind him, his bare chest against Chris’s naked back. Chris never slept with clothes on, even though they hadn’t done shit since his breakdown, he still slept naked. Not that Stiles was complaining, being able to slide up behind him and feel his body warmed from the blankets and bed was a little intoxicating.

Chris groaned in his sleep, but pushed against him. Stiles pressed his face against the back of his neck, breathing deeply, the tired sleepy smell of him. He kissed Chris’s cheek, his stubble-covered cheek pricking at his lips before he pushed himself out of bed.

It didn’t smell like Peter had even been in the bedroom and Chris wasn’t going anywhere. Stiles still didn’t like leaving him alone, but Peter was probably just downstairs. He went down the dim stairway and onto the first floor. Peter’s scent was fresher in the kitchen. Through the sliding glass door, he could see his silhouette through layers of fog.

The concrete of the patio was cool and gritted under his feet when he stepped outside. The fog lingered above the pool and the grass, only a few inches above the ground. Peter was standing in the soup of it. Stiles couldn’t make out any of his features, just his shape between the pool and the house.

Stiles sat on one of the loungers, the nylon creaking, and the metal frame damp under his fingers.

Behind him, on the same chair, was a pile of rocks and sticks. Stiles picked up a sprig of green and smelled it. It was woody and sweet. The red petals of an Indian Paintbrush stood out against the monotone pile. He didn’t know where Peter had found one. It was too cold for them.

He looked up when he heard Peter step onto the concrete then sit on the second lounger. He laid back in it, his arm above his head, holding the metal frame. Stiles watched his chest expand as he took a deep breath. He was staring at the stone back wall of the yard. Stiles could barely see the shadow of the trees passed it. His feet were bare and dirty.

“Is he still asleep?” Peter asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said.

His eyes were damp and irritated. Stiles put his hand on his thigh and Peter closed his eyes, breathing out slowly, covering his hand with his own cool dry ones. The underside of his fingernails were black with dirt.

“Did you sleep at all?” Stiles asked.

Peter shook his head before he opened his eyes again. “Has Chris told you what he wants?”  

“He told me he was going to ask about the bite,” Stiles said.

“What do you think?” Peter asked, finally looking toward him. His eyes were purple.

“I guess if the doctor thinks it could help then it could be a good idea?” he said, his voice faltering. “I don’t know. You know him better. You know more about being a werewolf.”

“You don’t care one way or the other?” Peter asked, “Just no feelings on it.”

“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to have an opinion on,” Stiles said.

In the silence, he only heard Peter exhale and watched his chest slowly decompress in the pale light.

“What do you think?” Stiles asked.

“I think I could rip that doctor’s fucking throat out for suggesting it,” he said. Stiles saw his pointed teeth before he leaned forward and buried his head in his heads. He dragged his hands up and down a few times before he looked out of the yard again. “He’s going to be so aggressive. I know it.”

“I wasn’t.”

Peter looked at him and the tiniest tension eased around his eyes. “You’re a good wolf. You get along with all three sides of me. The alpha adores you. Buck enjoys you. But Chris and this alpha,” Peter shook his head and made a tired noise. “I could kill that doctor.”

“It’s not like you’re super dominant,” Stiles said.

“Have you met Chris?” Peter asked, laughing humorlessly. “If there was a man that could become an alpha wolf by merit of personality, that would be him. Every little thing I do, he’s going to be watching.”

Stiles rolled his lips between his teeth. He wanted to argue, but Chris was so analytical as a human it was unsettling. Throw in a wolf, even with as little as he knew about them and it did sound like nightmare material.

“Yeah. I can see that.”

“If it was just Buck, we would be perfect.”

“Did you talk to his doctor?” Stiles asked.

Peter nodded. “At least I ruined his morning. He was still asleep.”

“Good.”

Peter smiled slightly without looking at him before the corners of his mouth fell. “He has valid reasons. That doesn’t mean I like them any more.”

“What were they?”

Peter turned his head until it was propped on his hand and he could look at him. “He doesn’t think Chris will stay on medication and given his track record, which Deaton doesn’t even know about, he isn’t wrong. He thinks a werewolf’s self-preservation would keep him safe from himself.”

Stiles nodded before he shrugged again, a little helpless. He could feel how anxious Peter was. It was like static electricity along his arms. Then he picked up one of the rocks at the foot of his lounger.

“What’s up with the foliage? Secretly a weresquirrel?”

Peter snorted, picked up some of the pile and putting it between his legs. “If I’m going to bite his stubborn ass, I can at least make it as safe as possible,” he said, then looked at Stiles. “It’s what I should’ve done for you and I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

“Yeah well you just wanted to kill me.”

“Not all of me,” Peter said, smiling, but his eyes were sad. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up.”

Peter took his hand and squeezed before sorting through the pile. “They all have significance, but their main point is just to make sure that when Chris’s wolf is made that it’s anchored to our territory from the beginning. I’ll need you here tonight too.”

“You’re doing it tonight?”

“We’re between the full moons. If I don’t do it tonight then we’ll have to wait a month.”

“Wow. That’s fast,” Stiles said.

Faintly, the thing in the back of his head was stirring. It felt closer under his skin, then his eyes shifted and he felt pushed back. His hand moved and he just gave in. It was just Peter. It wasn’t like he needed to keep it inside.

Peter squeezed his hand. He stared at him for a moment before he smiled softly, lifting his hand to his lips and kissing his fingers. His eyes turned fully red and that part of Stiles that was jittery settled like it was tranquilized.

“It isn’t like he isn’t already part of the pack,” Stiles said.

“You’ll always be my little wolf,” Peter said, kissing his hand again before letting go. “He will be a nightmare. You’ll keep me sane.”

The puppy in his head melted at that. It was hard to even think of it as a wolf when it came to Peter. It acted ridiculous, like anything Peter wanted or said was completely okay, like if he was upset it would do anything in the world to make him happy. The last week had been shitty, but even when he considered staying home to take a break, the interloper didn’t want to risk it. If it could help Peter that’s what it wanted. Even if helping him was just rubbing his back after they went to bed and Chris was snoring quietly, too exhausted to function.

“I need you to stay with him today. I still need to get a few more things. Go see my sister and my mother,” Peter said.

“Okay,” Stiles said.

Peter laughed slightly without much humor in it, but it still lifted something in his chest. “I don’t know how I would’ve handled this without you.”

Stiles shrugged, looking at the concrete between their feet. “It’s all been shitty, but it finally maybe feels like it won’t always be that way. Maybe?”

“It won’t be,” Peter said. “I know it’s hard to believe, but we were happy together for a long time.”

“I know you were.”

“But you’ll see it soon.”

Stiles didn’t know if Peter realized how close his words mirrored what Chris had said to him only a few weeks ago. He doubted they realized how much they mirrored each other at all, the way they moved, the things they said, the way their minds worked, it was like their personalities had imprinted on each other. It’s what happened when someone spent twenty years of their life with someone else. He could see that, but he doubted if they could, or if they’d even understand if he told them.

Instead of trying to make him understand, he leaned forward and kissed Peter. His lips were cool, but they warmed under his own as the seconds dragged out. His wolf wanted every bit of it, but Stiles kept it back. Two weeks from the full moon, it was easier. He was kissing Peter and he had no doubt that it was Peter kissing him back.

When they stopped, Peter’s hand was on the back of his neck and their foreheads were touching. Stiles dug his nails into Peter’s hair and felt a soft growl vibrate between them.

“Everything is going to be okay,” he said.

“I know,” Peter said.

But he could hear the uptick of his heart. He squeezed his fingers in the back of his hair before pulling away.

“Go get what you need. Take your time. I’ll keep him busy with video games.”

“You’ve gotten him addicted,” Peter said, forcing a smile. “I need your keys. I’ll have to get a few things from your house.”

Stiles got up and stared back toward the house. Peter followed him, setting his pile of odd shit on the kitchen table before he followed him up the stairs. Stiles dug through the pockets of his discarded jeans beside the bed. By the time he fished them out, Chris was looking at both of them.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, like he needed about a gallon of water.

“I need to go to Stiles’s,” Peter said.

“Why?” Chris asked.

“I talked your fucking doctor,” Peter said. “And you’re getting what you want like you always do.”

Chris sat up, obviously fighting to wake up more, but Stiles could smell it on him, he was exhausted.

“That was fast.”

“We have to do it tonight if this is what you want. I won’t have this hanging over my head for a month,” Peter said, taking Stiles’s keys. Then he looked at Chris again and raised his brow. “It’s what you want?”

“Yes.”

Peter nodded then started for the bedroom door.

“Peter,” Chris said.

Peter turned back from the bedroom door then his shoulders slumped as he came back to Chris and bent down to hug him. Chris wrapped his shoulders around his neck. Stiles heard them kiss before Peter straightened.

“Thank you,” Chris said.

Peter dragged his nose over his cheek before kissing him again. “I’ll be home later. Be good. Be safe.”

“I will.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Chris said.

Then Peter turned to Stiles and kissed him deeply. Their kisses normally weren’t like that, but Stiles took it, putting his arm around Peter’s neck and kissing him as good as he got before finally pulling away.

“Let me know if you need help,” he said.

“You’ll be helping here,” Peter said before he pecked him on the mouth again. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Take your time,” Stiles said.

Then Peter walked out of the bedroom door. Chris slumped down, staring at the far wall. Stiles scented the air, but he could only smell the faintest traces of acridness, anxiety, nervousness, leaking through the medicated over-layer.

Stiles stripped to his boxers before crawling into bed with him.

“Okay?”

“I expected him to drag his feet,” Chris said. Then his chest fell as he exhaled. “Shit.”

“Do you still want it?”

“Yeah,” Chris said. Then he looked at Stiles. “Is that okay?”

Stiles shrugged. “What’s one more mongrel in the house?”

Chris laughed slightly, putting his arm around him and dragging him closer. Stiles put his leg over Chris’s thighs, snuggling closer to his neck. His little interloper came closer to the surface, sniffing his skin. He wondered if that would change, that pure warm scent that was Chris. He wondered if his wolf was going to like him. He was glad that Chris couldn’t hear the uptick of his own heart.

***

It was midnight when Peter finally had their bedroom arranged how he wanted with all the things they needed. There was still blood on his fingers as he moved the candle on the dresser slightly to the left. The one he moved looked like a normal tapered candle, aside from looking black unless it was held just right beneath direct light. Then the hues of red could be seen.

There were two more in the room, one on the right side of the bed, the side Stiles had been sleeping on for the last few weeks. On the left side of the bed, was a candle with three diversions for himself.

Pin oak bark, sour grass, and Indian Paint Brushes were burning in a bowl and the antler of a deer Peter killed on his family’s property earlier in the day. Some of its blood was in a sycamore bowl beneath the bed. Peter could smell its metallic tang in the air.

A blanket he had taken of Stiles’s laid on their bed with the rest of their bedding. In the glow of candlelight, their room looked like a den. It looked soft and comfortable. It looked like the kind of home to care for and grow a newly bitten wolf.

It was the kind of effort he should have put into turning Stiles, but he hadn’t, because the largest part of him hadn’t cared if he had bled out in the woods.

“Take your clothes off and lay on the bed,” Peter said as he started to take off his own clothing. He heard Stiles and Chris doing the same.

He watched Chris move into the center of the bed before laying on his back. Stiles laid beside him on the right and Peter crawled up beside him on the left before straddling his hips. Chris held his sides like second nature as Peter leaned down to scent his neck. He had over twenty-four hours of living and breathing worn into his skin. He smelled perfectly of Chris, of the very essence of who he was. He smelled like himself and Stiles, because they had rubbed against him at every opportunity over the last three hours.

Beside him, he heard Stiles sniffing Chris before he made a small happy growl. Chris ruffled Stiles’s hair. His heart was beating quickly.

“We don’t have to do this,” he said.

“I want to,” Chris said. “Just don’t take too much enjoyment in biting a hole in my neck.”

Peter leaned down and kissed the side of his throat. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Asshole,” Chris said under his breath.

“Yes, you are,” Peter said, kissing Chris again before leaning back.

He could feel the more dominant part of himself. It was rolling in his brain like a thunderhead, the scent of the room becoming stronger and fainter with each heartbeat as it came forward and sank back. Buck was with it, reveling in the scent of Chris, prickling with excitement that he would have a wolf soon, a wolf that Buck was entirely convinced would love him as much as he already loved it.

“Give me your hand, Stiles,” Peter said.

Stiles held out his hand and Peter held his cheek.

“Little love,” he said.

Stiles’s eyes turned golden with his wolf at the very forefront of his mind.

“Oh aren’t you beautiful,” Peter whispered, stroking Stiles’s cheek, waiting for the wolf to get into his blood before he lifted his hand to his mouth and bit him. Stiles growled quietly, but held still and Peter let his mouth fill then leaned over Chris. Chris opened his mouth and let Peter pour Stiles’s wolf’s blood from his own mouth to Chris’s.

When he looked back at Stiles, he’s eyes were brown again. He offered his other hand like Peter had told him he would need to. Peter bit into the meat of his palm, taking the human of Stiles’s blood and leaning over Chris to do the same thing.

Then he bit his own palm and let his human blood flow into Chris’s mouth before he leaned over him and closed his eyes. He was so nervous that the alpha just wanted to take control. It was right at the forefront. Fighting it down to feel human was hard enough, finding his other wolf was harder, until he felt Chris’s large warm hand on his cheek.

“Buck.”  

He growled a different growl. A growl that was almost entirely reserved for Chris before he opened his eyes and Chris smile nearly hurt. He felt his wolf’s heart beat in a younger rhythm for the man he’d been in love with for as long as he could remember.

“There’s my wolf,” Chris said.

Peter bit into his own wrist and held it over Chris’s mouth, watching Chris drink large mouthfuls before he took it away. Buck nuzzled at Chris’s mouth before they kissed long and slow. Finally, Peter made himself pull away, then he grabbed Stiles and pulled him closer. Stiles flashed his yellow eyes at him and licked his neck. His alpha flared instantly. Peter bit his other hand and held it over Chris’s mouth. Chris drank like he had the rest. Peter leaned down and licked the blood of all five of his anchors from his lips.

“I love you,” Peter said quietly.

“I know you do,” Chris said, squeezing the back of his neck.  

Peter breathed above Chris’s neck and bit into his shoulder. Chris grunted, nearly a yell as he gripped the back of his neck. Peter could feel his chest rising and falling beneath him as he kept his teeth in his body, feeling the beat of his heart against his tongue, savoring it like he was supposed to, letting his pulse become one with his mate. Then he pulled out, licking away the blood his teeth left.

“Fuck that hurts,” Chris said.

“Yeah, imagine getting none of the romantic hoodoo and just getting your ass bit in the woods, in the wet, and the cold,” Stiles said.

Peter growled then Buck was at the forefront of his mind, holding Chris’s face as he gently licked his neck until the bleeding was stanched. Chris moved his hands up and down his sides, dragging up his spine and shoulders. Then he spread his legs, cradling Peter with his thighs. Stiles’s warm hand slid up his cock, getting him harder before pushing him against Chris’s hole.

The alpha pushed at Buck until he was mostly in the front as he breached his new beta. He licked the side of Chris’s neck then over his lips. Chris licked him back, having been with a wolf for far too long to find it strange. Then Chris put his arm around Stiles and brought him closer until Stiles’s naked body was against their own as Peter bred Chris, his movements slow and deliberate. His alpha may not love Chris as much as his human part or even a fraction of what Buck did, but the thought of losing him was terrifying. His other parts were so interconnected with Chris. He wouldn’t survive it.

He heard Chris and Stiles kissing and Chris’s as he fucked him harder and faster.

Peter grabbed one of Stiles’s hands and put it where he was disappearing into Chris’s body. His cock throbbed. He wanted him to feel where he was going to swell and lock inside of Chris. He wanted him to feel what Peter would do to him as soon as they were free to indulge in each other. Stiles’s breathing caught before he slid down Peter’s shaft and Peter froze half out of Chris, letting Stiles squeeze his swollen base.

“Do you always do that?” Stiles asked.

“When I have sex with one of my mates,” he said, brushing his nose against Stiles.

Stiles squeezed his cock again. “I can’t wait,” he said. When he looked at Peter, his eyes were completely amber, his wolf so close beneath the surface. Peter’s dick throbbed inside of Chris as he pushed his swollen base inside of him. He leaned down and kissed Chris. It was whiplash, but having the alpha step back was all the room Buck needed to slide under his skin. He breathed in the scent of Chris’s skin, warm and stronger with friction. They smelled like each other. He smelled perfect. He kissed Chris like he was revered as he slowly ground into his mate.

Peter pressed his face against Chris’s throat, feeling Chris gasp every time he tugged at his rim. When he started to cum, locked deep in Chris’s insides, his body trembled and Chris held him closer. Peter sucked his bite on Chris’s shoulder softly as he came deep in his body, putting as much of himself into Chris as he could, his semen, his blood, his mutation. He couldn’t protect his love any more than he had tried, so Buck covered him like a living blanket, knotted inside of him, and feeling Chris’s hands move up and down his back. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters and a possible epilogue.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A LOT of dom/sub sex between different personalities. Warning for power struggle. Just really buckle down for a few seconds of some morally dubious sex.

Peter woke up when Chris yelled and the bed jerked. Stiles shot up on the other side of him, his eyes laced with red veins.

“Fuck. Close the curtains,” Chris said.

Peter climbed over him, cursing himself that he hadn’t thought about it the night before. He pulled the thick curtain panels closed over their two windows, closing out the dull gray light of early morning. Across the room, Stiles closed the bedroom door, cutting out the light leaking in from the hall.  

Peter laid back down, pulling Chris to his chest. Chris’s hands were pressed against his face. The scent of pain was like menthol. Chris back hitched then again before he put his arms around Peter and pressed his face beneath his chin. The bed vibrated and Stiles’s arms slid against his as he laid against Chris’s back.  

“It’s already kicking in?” Stiles asked quietly.

“Yes,” Chris said.

He sounded dehydrated. Peter wanted to get him water, but Chris’s fingers were dug into his back.

“Just stay close. Smelling you always helped,” Stiles said.

Chris nodded again, letting out a shaky breath against Peter’s throat. “My head is killing me.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said.

“I knew it was going to hurt.”

Peter kissed his forehead, running his fingers through his short hair. “Just a few days and it’ll be over.”

“I’ve been through worse,” Chris said.

“I know,” Peter lied.

The truth was that if it took a turn for the worst then so many of his organs could fail. His heart would be pumping harder. The excess blood flow to his brain, surging to repair damage could cause blockages. He could easily have a stroke, an aneurysm, or a heart attack. So many terrible things could happen, but the most likely outcome was that in two weeks, he would have a new wolf in his pack. That was the strongest possibility and he held onto it with rabid determination while Chris’s skin began to tack to his with sweat and the hints of diseases began to leach into Chris’s scent.

 

***

 

The vomiting started two hours after. Stiles had had a two-day window at least. Chris was bent over the toilet less than twelve hours after Peter bit him. He sat on the end of Peter and Chris’s bed while he listened to Chris being sick. Last time, he went in to help Chris clean off and get back on his feet. This time it was Peter.

Stiles listened to the toilet flush and moved back up the bed, pulling back the blankets. Chris crawled in beside him, his breath smelling of Listerine and faintly of bile. Black and blue lines were radiating from the deep red puncture wounds on his neck and shoulder. His had never looked that bad.

He touched near the smallest hole and felt the heat pulsing beneath his fingers.

Chris watched him, deep purple shadows beneath his eyes and red veins scattered over his eyes.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not compared to everything else,” Chris said.

“I’m going to order food,” Peter said, finally coming out of the bathroom. His hair was sticking up and he was still in his sleep pants. It had to be close to five in the evening. “Any preferences?”

“Red meat,” Chris said.

“I assumed,” Peter said with a small eye roll before he looked at Stiles. “What about you?”

“Yeah just whatever you get him.”

“Okay,” Peter said, leaving the room and pulling the door softly closed behind him.

Chris sighed and put his arm around Stiles, pulling him close enough to bury his nose against his chest. Stiles put his arm over his side and rested his cheek on his hair. He remembered sitting in Chris’s Tahoe in front of the coffee shop when he was becoming something he didn’t even know existed. The resentment felt like a solid thing to swallow, it settled in his chest like ice, slowly melting, but there, still cold and uncomfortable.

 

 

Chris puked all night and the next day. He got cold sweats and talked in his sleep. He couldn’t leave the bed and he couldn’t stand to have them far away. Not that either of them would’ve left him. Peter watched him like he was a doctor on an intensive care floor and Stiles just didn’t like the idea of not being within range if Chris wanted to squeeze him like a human teddy bear.

He couldn’t say he was relieved to have to go back to work.

He hated walking out the front door of Peter and Chris’s house while Chris was still pretty much in the fetal position and clinging to him or Peter to cut down on his headaches. But he hated the sound of his vomiting. He hated how he smelled and that there was nothing he could do about it. He felt like a traitor leaving Peter to deal with it alone, but he couldn’t exactly bail on the other officers and his dad either.

For a few hours, he tried not to think of Chris at all.

He stayed busy, but kept his phone on him and on vibrate. The few breaks they had between calls, he texted Peter for a check-up and it was always the same, Chris still felt like shit, but he hadn’t gotten any worse. He was vomiting, but it wasn’t black.

He didn’t know exactly what Peter was worried about, but he wasn’t good at hiding that fact that he was afraid. The night he bit him, Peter had watched Chris like he was going to stop breathing any second even though his heartbeat was strong and his lungs sounded fine. There was something Peter wasn’t telling him and Stiles couldn’t honestly say that he wanted to know what it was.

After he got off work, he texted Peter again, but Chris was just asleep.

He considered driving straight over, but he didn’t have a clean uniform tomorrow. He needed to do dishes and he’s like a shower in his own shitty bathroom. Instead he called Peter, pressing the phone to his ear where he waited in his Jeep at the gas station after filling it up.

“Hello,” Peter answered on the third ring.

“Hey, how’s he doing?”

“Fine,” Peter said.

“Is he? You sound stressed.”

The microphone crackled as Peter exhaled against it. “He’s still vomiting. I would’ve liked that to have stopped this afternoon, but it’s less frequent.”

“That sucks,” Stiles said. He tried to remember how long he had vomited, but it was impossible to tell. There were days that he couldn’t remember anything when he was shifting. “I need to wash some clothes then I’ll be over.”

“Don’t you need to work tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Just stay home. Do what you need to do. We’ll be fine.”

Stiles curled his lips between his teeth as a low hollow feeling settled in his chest. “I want to be there,” he said eventually.

“And I would love for you to be here, but you have responsibilities. We both understand that.”

Then Stiles heard a low voice in the background. Chris. Peter said a few things then he could hear the phone changing hands.

“Stiles?”

“Hey,” Stiles said softening his voice. “How’d you feel?”

“Like shit,” Chris said. “I’ll only be awake for a little while. Go home. Get some sleep.”

“How can you still be so bossy even when you’re sick?”

“It’s a talent. Stop worrying about me. I’ll be fine.”

“So you say.”

He barely heard Chris huff a laugh. “I love you. Go get some sleep.”

“I love you too,” Stiles said, his chest fluttering with something like helium. He could feel his cheeks flushing. “Feel better okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Chris said. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” Stiles said.

Then he heard the phone changing hands again, the low mumble of Chris and Peter talking to each other and his chest rang dully. He wished he was in their bed. He wanted to be curled up in their blankets like he had been almost every night for the last month.

“You’re more than welcome to come here, but you’ll get better sleep at your house,” Peter said when he took the phone back, like he could read Stiles’s thoughts. “He’s up and down every thirty minutes. Even I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles said, picking at a piece of fraying vinyl on his steering wheel. “It just feels wrong to be away from you guys.”

“I know. We’ll see you tomorrow. I promise.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Get some sleep.”

“I’ll try,” Peter said. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Stiles said. Nearly the same feeling of helium filling his chest happened as when Chris told him he loved him. The heat in his cheeks was stronger. “I think I’m in over my head.”

“Join the club,” Peter said, but Stiles could tell he was smiling. It shocked him slightly that he could picture exactly which smile it would be.

“Night, Peter.”

“Goodnight, little love. Sleep well.”

Stiles held the phone to his ear for a moment longer before he made himself lower it and hit the end button. The silence in the cabin of his Jeep felt heavy and low. Pressure was still in his chest for Chris, mixing with unease, but over it all that feeling of helium and butterflies hadn’t quite left.

 

***

 

Peter woke up to the sound of Chris vomiting. He stared at the dark ceiling of their bedroom for a moment before he pushed himself out of the still warm sheets. The blue numbers of the alarm clock numbers glowed at him. They’d gone to sleep less than an hour before after the last vomiting episode.

When he walked into the bathroom, he heard Chris gag again. It sounded like nothing would come of it until his back heaved again.

“No lights,” Chris said as soon as he could only be cut off by another retch.

“I wasn’t going to,” Peter said quietly as he took the rag he’d left on the sink an hour before. He let the tap warm before wetting the cloth beneath it and ringing it out. He could smell stomach bile, chicken broth, and toilet cleaner.

When Chris finally sounded like he was finished, Peter flushed the toilet then crouched down, taking Chris’s head in his hand, and wiping his mouth and chin. His eyes were unfocused, rolling in his head as he leaned on the toilet and heavily into Peter’s palm. The faint lights came in from the bedroom, reflecting off his eyes, milky and pale over the light blue.

“Back to bed,” Peter said, softly, gripping Chris by his sides and dragging him up. He was deadweight until he got his legs beneath him. Then he put his arm around Peter’s shoulders.

“It wasn’t this bad for Stiles,” Chris said.

His throat sounded like it was made of ground meat. The scent of pain was so strong it made Peter’s nose run.

“Stiles is eighteen years younger than you.”

“Fuck you,” Chris said as Peter helped him crawl back into bed. He laid face down and exhaled heavily into the pillow

“Poor old man.”

Then there was a low, but audible growl. Peter froze with his hand still resting on Chris’s damp t-shirt. Chris lifted his head and looked back at him.

“Was that you?”

“You know it wasn’t,” Peter said.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Chris said, dropping his face back down. Then there was the quiet rumble again and Chris coughed. “It tickles.”

Peter laughed as he crawled over Chris to lay down on his other side.

“Stop it,” Chris said as he coughed and growled again.

Peter laughed again as he ran his fingers through Chris’s hair. His eyes prickled with heat. If he was growling then the wolf had a hold. The seed wasn’t only planted, it was sprouting and the fear of drought was so much less.

Peter petted the back of Chris’s neck and down between his shoulders. Chris’s back sank as he sighed. He remembered his mom doing the same thing to him when he was ten or eleven and shifts were still hard. He’d done the same thing to Stiles in his too small bed when he was still a stranger, reeking of pain and discomfort on the second night of his first full moon.

Chris’s scent mellowed so much faster as he fell back to sleep. Peter petted him until he couldn’t remember doing it any longer. Chris didn’t wake to vomit again. When Peter woke again, the light of morning was bleeding faintly through the curtains and his hand was still resting on Chris’s back.

 

***

 

The next night, Stiles hadn’t even had time to change out of his work clothes before there was a knock on his door. He figured Chris and Peter could wait as he rearranged some of the books Parrish had lent him on the coffee table and put some of his video games back in their cases and rearranged them on the shelves. He was contemplating wiping off his small plex board entertainment center before Chris or Peter knocked again.

“Fuck you guys are impatient,” Stiles said as he pulled open the door.

“Well hello to you too,” Peter said, standing on his steps, wearing some name brand douchebag jacket that probably cost more than every possession in his house. Stiles flipped him off as he hugged Chris.

“Hi,” Stiles said.

“Hi,” Chris said, kissing his cheek then his lips.

Stiles smiled and kissed him back. “I guess you feel a little better.”

“A little,” Chris said.

“I’m glad.”  

Then he turned to Peter and smiled, holding out his arms. Peter hugged him tightly. He’d only be gone from their house for twenty-four hours and it already felt like a small eternity as he breathed in the scent of his laundry detergent and bar soap.

“I missed you,” Peter said.

“Yeah, I missed you too and it’s a little creepy,” Stiles said, smiling again, his cheeks faintly red as he pulled away. “I don’t know why the fuck you guys wanted to come here, but get comfortable.”

“Let me put this in the oven,” Peter said, holding out the large white plastic take-out bag.

“Let me,” Chris said, taking the bag from him. “We don’t need you burning down Stiles’s house.”

“I can set a kitchen timer, thank you very much,” Peter said.

Stiles snorted as he watched Chris go down the hall to his kitchen. Through the pass-through in the wall, he could see him moving around and hear the clattering of sheet pans.

“So how was today?” Stiles asked.

“It went well. We saw my sister and he didn’t try to eat her. He could be around a few strangers at the gas station.”

“Hey, I’ll take it,” Stiles said. “His eyes though? Did you see that?” Stiles asked when he heard the loudest clang in his kitchen. He didn’t realize that he was nearly speaking into Peter’s ear until he felt his hand rest on his lower back.

“He must have been getting cataracts. He has a family history of heart disease, so his heart rhythm is off as well. The mutation will push those imperfections out and try to repair the damage. It can only do so much. He'll still have gray in his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes will stay. They may get shallower, but that's all.”

“Good.”

“I agree,” Peter said, the corner of his mouth turning up.

“Stop talking about me,” Chris called from the kitchen.

“No,” Stiles said before Peter could say exactly the same thing. “So, he’s out of the woods?”

Peter nodded. “I think so.”

Stiles’s shoulders fell. “Thank God.”

“Mhm,” Peter said. “Now what do you have to watch?”

“I don’t know. Plenty of nerdy shit. Not sure if it’s anything you’ll be in to.”  

It took a lot less time than he thought it would to pick out a movie with Peter. It still felt just a little weird to be sitting on the kind of dirty carpet of his living room and flipping through DVD cases with Peter flipping them over to read the synopsis on the back.

They ended up with a dragon movie Stiles hadn’t seen in forever with Christian Bale and Matthew McConaughey. The trailers for movies that had been out of theaters for years were still playing when Chris sat on the couch between them. Stiles squeaked just a little bit when Chris slid his hand beneath his legs and pulled Stiles across him, so that his bare feet were on the cushion between Chris and Peter and his ass was pressed against Chris’s thigh. Chris leaned in and Stiles thought he would kiss him, but he just ran his nose up the side of his throat with a low rumble.

Stiles smiled and hummed, ducking his head down enough to catch Chris’s lips in a soft kiss that dragged. He was warm under his palms when for the last few months he’d always felt a little bit cool. Then Chris’s hand edged up his shirt and touched his stomach, his fingers splayed and calloused as he rubbed.

“Are you two going to make out or are you going to watch the movie?” Peter asked.

“I’ve already seen it,” Stiles said, kissing Chris back.

“Whores,” Peter said.

Stiles grunted and pushed Chris away. Chris only stopped kissing him. He didn’t put any distance between them. His hands were still up his shirt, one resting on his stomach and the other cupping his side, but he tucked his face into the curve of Stiles’s neck closing his eyes.

“Are you really going to sleep on us so quick, old man?” Stiles asked.

“Shh,” Chris said.

Stiles snorted and looked at Peter, but Peter was looking at Chris was a faint smile on his lips. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his skin was paler than normal. Stiles held out his hand and Peter laced their fingers together.

Then Stiles’s felt Chris’s eyelashes move against his skin before sat up, then stood, pulling Stiles up with him until he sat him on his feet. Stiles barely had time to yelp before Chris’s hands were off of him and he was messing with his phone.

“I want to go for a walk,” he said.

“I thought you were going to sleep?” Stiles asked.

Chris shook his head. Stiles could see him setting a time on his phone screen.

“If you don’t want to go we can just go around the block,” Peter said. “I know you worked all day.”

“No I could do a walk,” Stiles said.

Chris was already across the room and pulling open the door. Stiles grabbed his jacket off the couch and followed them out. A few street lights illuminated hsi street, but they were few and far between the small houses. Every couple weeks a new sign was out front of one house or another, saying it was for rent. UHauls and trailers were common.

It was quiet this late though. Even the house two down from Stiles that he’d called in noise complains on was dark and still at nearly midnight. Stiles could see his own breath and Chris and Peter’s as they walked down the middle of the street like there was nothing in the world wrong with that.

Since he was bitten, he didn’t get cold often, but by the end of the block, he had his hands in his jean pockets. He looked past Peter walking between them to Chris and almost stopped in his tracks when he saw his eyes shift. They turned a pale yellow that reflected the glow of the street lamps then it shifted and they were blue again as Chris watched a holly bush near them.

“It’s a cat,” Stiles said.

Chris looked at him and Stiles smiled. “How do you know?”

“It’s always in there,” Stiles said.

“You never know, Stiles, it could be a mountain lion,” Peter said.

Stiles laughed and Chris shouldered Peter knocking him into Stiles. Peter put his arm around Stiles’s back to steady himself and him then squeezed him slightly before letting go. Stiles felt his cheeks heat in the cold.

“How is it, Cujo?” Stiles asked.

“It’s different,” Chris said.

Stiles laughed a little under his breath, sharing a look with Peter that Chris hadn’t missed a beat at what he’d said.

“It kinda felt like putting on glasses for the first time to me,” Stiles said.

Chris nodded as he stared at the houses around them. “I never realized so many dogs barked in town.”

“They really should get out more. They complain so much,” Peter said.

Stiles listened and for the first time he realized there were a lot of barks. One was just down the street. A few were barking at each other, he could tell just at the distance. Some were barking at nothing. Stiles didn’t realize they had stopped until Chris’s phone timer broke the silence.

As they turned back to his house, Peter stepped around him until he was in the middle. He kept his arm around his shoulders. Stiles bumped against him softly every few steps, but it didn’t both him and it didn’t seem to bother Peter either. On his other side, Chris was walking just close enough to brush the back of his warm hand against his freezing ones. It was enough to keep himself from putting it back in his pocket.

 

***

 

The next morning, Chris laid on the couch in his and Peter’s living room against Peter. They had walked their property after getting home from Stiles after he left for work that morning. They still smelled of his sheets mixed with evergreen and dirt. He was already tired again..

He pressed his face against his neck, pulling his arm around his shoulders. Peter turned in against him and kissed his forehead, smiling slightly.

“I hate being this clingy.”

“I like it,” Peter said, leaning down until their lips touched.

Chris kissed him back. The pressure in his head built, pressing between his eye, right above his nose. He cupped Peter’s cheek and kissed him harder. Peter moaned quietly into his mouth.

“You should’ve asked sooner.”

“You didn’t even want to give it to me now,” Chris said.

“I could’ve been convinced,” Peter said. His eyes glowed sanguine. He wondered how it felt in his brain. If he was pulled in three directions instead of two.

“Why didn’t you ever want to bite me?” Chris asked.

“You never asked,” Peter said. “There was no reason to want what you didn’t.”

Chris barely heard him as he dragged his nose up the front of Peter’s throat. Then he licked, from Peter’s collarbone, up to his chin. Peter laughed slightly and pushed at him, but Chris held onto him and mouthed up his neck.

“Slut,” Peter said.

“I can’t help it.”

“I know,” Peter said, rubbing his hands down his sides. “Let’s go upstairs, get our clothes off.”

Chris pressed his face into the dry side of Peter’s throat. He rubbed. It was a nuzzle. For the first time he understood why Peter had always done it. The scent of Peter’s skin was stronger. He let Peper pull him up and he followed him with his hand hot against his. He could smell something crisp and hot on Peter’s scent trail. Something like jalapeno meats and leather. It made saliva pool in his mouth.

When they got upstairs, he pulled Peter back against his chest and kissed his neck with his hand against his throat. Peter laughed then pushed against him, grinding against his hips. Then he pulled away, twisting out of Chris’s hold and taking off his t-shirt. The tickle at the back of Chris’s throat happened again before he growled. Peter was smiling. His eyes were golden.

Chris pulled off his own shirt and pushed out of his jeans and underwear. Peter had beat him to it, laying on their bed completely stripped. Chris crawled on top of him, kissing his throat again, large open mouth drags that pooled in his gut in a way it never had before. Peter tilted back his chin and let him with a small growl that didn’t sound like a challenge at all.

“Roll over. Get on your hands and knees for me,” Chris said, dragging his beard against Peter’s soft skin, irrationally happen when he saw the burn it left.

As soon as he rolled over, the pressure in Chris’s head surged. His eyesight pulsed and for the first time, he felt his fingertips tingling like he was about pass out.

“Don’t you even fucking think about it without fingering me,” Peter said.

The bedroom swam back into focus so quickly Chris had to grip Peter’s hips to stay still. Slowly the world filtered back to a standstill and he leaned down, spreading Peter’s ass cheeks more and dragging his tongue over his asshole.

“Fuck,” Peter said, jerking and his ring of muscle twitching.

Chris licked again before sucking the rim, making it puffy before sliding his first finger inside.  The pressure didn’t come on as quickly, but it built steadily, everything tasted differently. It smelled him differently.

He used to need to be in the right mood. Now he didn’t care. The pressure liked how Peter tasted in the most intimate place of his body. It loved that Peter was on his hands and knees, bent over and bared for him.

When Peter pulled forward, Chris held his hips in place, pushing his tongue deeper. Peter groaned, taking his dick in his hand as Chris worked his tongue in and out before sucking and nipping until Peter whimpered again, his hips twitching forward.

“Fuck me.”

Chris took the bottle of lube from the bedside table and kissed up Peter’s back as he rubbed the slick liquid over himself. The feeling of his own hand made him jerk into his fist. When he got close enough to Peter’s hole, he moved forward hard. He sank himself deeply, vaguely hearing Peter snarl. A small part of him wanted to roll on his back, show his stomach. The rest of him wanted to push, wanted to bite Peter’s throat. He pulled out and flipped Peter onto his back. His eyes were glowing purple before Chris clamped his jaws on either side of his windpipe. He could feel Peter growling against his teeth. He readjusted his hold and pressed his hips closer until the head of his cock caught on Peter’s rim. He hunched forward once then again until he sank into his heat again.

Peter snarled, kicking him, and digging his claws between his ribs.

“I’m going to bite,” Peter said, through his teeth.

Chris growled. It was the first time he heard that noise come from his mouth. He felt it so deep in his chest it was like he’d grown another organ. He clenched his jaw against Peter’s soft pale throat as he fucked him hard, bottoming out again.

Then Peter jerked from between his teeth and he felt searing heat in his shoulder. He snarled at the same time Peter bit him again.

Chris lunged forward, then gagged as pressure closed around his throat. Peter was sitting up, Chris falling from his warmth. Peter’s eyes were burning red. The urge to submit seeped in harder. But he still wanted to fuck him. He still wanted to hold him down and dominate him.

“This is going to be a problem isn’t it?” Peter said.

Chris could still feel the vibration of his growl against Peter’s palm.

“I knew you’d be hard,” Peter said. Then his palm connected with the side of Chris’s face, loud enough to ring in Chris’s ears. Chris flinched before he snarled again. Peter’s hand tightened on his throat. “We’re going to clear something up now, so I can still enjoy sex with you without wanting to tear your head off, part of me wants to roll over and let you fuck me as hard and as often as you want,” he said.

Chris’s growl turned less aggressive then, it softened and deepened to more of a hum. Peter’s hand barely relaxed, just enough for Chris to get near enough to lick the few droplets of his own blood that were on Peter’s mouth. He tasted perfect on Peter’s skin. He licked his mouth clean before Peter shoved him back, holding him by his throat again.

“Listen to me, Chris,” Peter said, a low bass to his voice. “Part of me will always be submissive to you. Then there’s part of me, a very strong part, that wants to rip out your throat for thinking you can growl at me. Be respectful. Do you understand?”

Chris growled quietly, trying to push forward. He wouldn’t submit. He was going to fuck Peter how he wanted. He was going to dominate him, because that’s how they had always had sex. Peter’s body was his. The pressure in his head made that thought so harsh it was nearly violent.

Then Peter’s eyes faded to blue.

Chris inhaled through his nose and slowly exhaled through his mouth.

For the first time, he realized he had the long-pointed canines. He hadn’t even felt them move into place. He looked down and saw one of his hands clutching Peter, his nails buried in his skin. The other hand was dug into the mattress.

His growl slacked and Peter moved his hand, petting down his chest and over his shoulders.

Chris leaned forward and licked over his lips. Peter opened his mouth for him and he groaned softly as they kissed. Then Chris moved down his neck, kissing Peter’s pale throat more carefully.

“It’s hard.”

“I know,” Peter said, tilting up his chin. Chris moaned softly, pressing his face against him.

Chris didn’t have to use his hands. Peter lined himself up with his cock and his body gave under each shallower hitch until he was buried. Chris pressed his forehead against Peter’s shoulder, filling his lungs with the warm heady smell of his body. He felt Peter’s hands moving against his back, his thighs pulling him closer.

“I knew you would be consuming,” Peter said, leaning up on one elbow to hold him closer. He was panting so hard Chris could hardly understand him.

“You’re mine,” Chris said. He didn’t realize he was repeating it until he mouthed Peter’s shoulder.

Peter nodded against him. “I’ve always been yours.”

Peter kissed the side of Chris’s face. He moaned sweetly when Chris rolled his hips deeper, fucking up into his prostate.

“You’re going to be such a nightmare. I can’t believe I waited so long,” Peter said. “Harder.”

What tiny fragment of control he had gotten back after Peter reprimanded him snapped. He shoved him into the bed with his chest, fucking him hard, his balls slapping against his mate’s ass as he bred him harder. Feeling Peter submit to him was a high he could feel in the tips of his fingers. His heart was racing.

He knew when Peter came from the convulsion of his body, the scent of his cum in the air, and the deep noise he made from the center of his chest.

His body clenched repeatedly, milking him into his soft insides until Chris was cumming deep inside of him. The purest side of Peter. The one that loved him unconditionally, the part he had always adored even when he could be pissed at the rest.

His wolf.

“Stay in me,” Peter said, pulling him closer as Chris came.

“I want to knot.”

“You can’t,” Peter said, holding his hips harder. “Just stay in me.”

Chris growled, but pressed deeper, some reptilian deep part of his brain ached. He needed to breed his mate, swell inside of him to lock his cum deep inside of him. Instead, he pulled Peter’s hips closer and spasmed a second smaller orgasm into him.

“Peter.”

Peter kissed his face softly with a quiet whine that soothed something in Chris’s brain. He licked him over the mouth before licking along his jaw and biting softly. Peter whimpered, his ass clenching on his softening dick again.

He was still in Peter when he finally fell back on the bed. His face was pink. His lips kiss swollen and beautifully red. Chris leaned forward and kissed him again.

“We’re going to be dangerous,” Peter said against him.

Chris pulled away slightly, some sanity slipping back into his thoughts, taking in the blood on the pillow case and the throb still in his neck that he’d barely noticed.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened,” Chris said.

Peter shook his head, breathing hard. “You’re just dominant. If it was only Buck, there wouldn’t be an issue.”

“But it isn’t.”

“No, but we’ll work on it,” Peter said, his eyes fluttering as his body clenched again. “God I wish I’d changed you twenty years ago. I’m so happy,” he drew Chris’s head down gently until his nose was right above his shoulder.

Chris inhaled the sweet earthy warmth of Peter’s skin before he started to lick, fucking his soft dick into his wet hole.

“I want to own you,” Chris said. It wasn’t his voice. It was deeper. It vibrated more in his throat. His thoughts were so possessive they were unsettling.

“I know,” Peter said, arching into his hips. “It makes me shake,” he said quietly.

Chris growled softly, mouthing the nook of his jaw. “Fuck, Peter.”

Peter nuzzled against his neck. Chris ducked and rubbed his cheek against his, both of them kissing and licking what they touched.

“I used to fantasize about you like this,” Peter whispered.

“You’re going to kill me.”

Peter shook his head against him. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Chris said, kissing him as gently as he could with his cock starting to get hard in his body again. “Take it again.”

Peter nodded, sliding his arms around his shoulders. Chris could still feel the first orgasm in his balls, but another drive was pushing him to go again, that he could go again. It was too strong. It was consuming. He could barely feel Peter’s skin under his hands. The pressure in his skull was engulfing him. It was touching Peter, smelling him, mating him, and it wasn’t going to give that up. He could feel his tongue, teeth, and lips moving all over Peter’s neck, but couldn’t stop. Peter wasn’t making any human noises. He kept his chin angled up and clung to him.

Chris let himself go.

It was a losing battle and the pressure could take Peter in so much better. He stopped any kind of resistance and felt his wolf touching and making love to their first mate for the first time. Faintly, he realized his bones ached, like growing pains. Like there weren’t in the right shape. But it wasn’t too strong. It wanted to use his body to love Peter.

“Look at me,” Peter said.

Chris felt his eyes move, but he didn’t do it. He could see Peter’s eyes were damp and it felt like he was being suffocated. His mate shouldn’t cry. He should never be sad. Then he smelled the ache, the longlining, the pure radiant happiness that had to be from Buck.

“I never would’ve thought your eyes could be more beautiful,” Peter said.

Chris pushed as deep into him as he could before kissing him again. Peter ran his fingers through the back of his hair, moaning a sound that almost sounded like tears.

“I love you so much,” Chris said. Peter sometimes sounded different. Now Chris completely understood why. He loved Peter, but he didn’t move his vocal cords or open his mouth. It wasn’t all his emotion that spread through his chest like a tidal wave.

Peter moaned softly again. “I didn’t even know I wanted this,” he said. Then Chris could tell he was crying. For the first time, he understood how emotional Peter could be. He understood it, because he felt it. He could smell it. He could smell how happy Peter was. It made his own heart pound as they kissed again while he slowly ground himself into his love’s body like he had no other purpose in the world.

 

***

 

All the lights in Chris and Peter’s house were off as Stiles came in the front door at nearly eleven. He’d taken his time getting around after getting off work since he didn’t have to go in for the next two days. He took the stairs two at a time, his body dragging after waking up at six that morning after staying up with Chris and Peter until two like a dumb ass.

Before he ever reached their bedroom door, he smelled the heat. When he pushed open the door, it was the only thing he could smell, like their sweat, sleep, cum, and skin all compounded to a scent that made a small tickle crawl up the back of his throat.

His eyesight swam, everything becoming blurry in his peripheral, as he pulled off his clothes and crawled into the bed where they slept. His fingertips were tingling as he touched Peter’s back. Peter made a soft tired noise, his skin warm with the bed and being pressed against Chris in front of him. Stiles didn’t realize how freezing the house was until then.

He pressed forward, spooning against Peter and almost completely convinced he would just go to sleep until he felt something slick on his dick. He rubbed against it then his dick slipped into the groove of Peter’s ass, catching on the rim of his wet asshole.

“Shit,” he said.

It didn’t feel like his voice. The interloper was pinging and he could hardly help it. He hadn’t fucked around in over a week and Peter soft,wet, and warm made his stomach tingle.

He moved up slightly until the very tip of his dick was sinking into his body. Peter jerked as he breached him before looking over his shoulder.

“I’ll stop. You were just so ready. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Peter said, his back relaxing against his chest as he bent his knees. They both moaned as he sank deeper.

“Are you wet with Chris’s cum?”

“Twice.”

Stiles groaned nuzzling against Peter’s throat. “You feel so fucking good.”

Peter slid his hand back and his hand laying like a guide on his hip. Then he felt Chris’s hand cupping Peter’s.

“Nice and slow, pup,” Chris said with his sleep hoarse voice.

Stiles moaned, leaning over until he could kiss Chris. “You both smell so fucking good.”

“Cum in him. Make it better,” Chris said.

Stiles whimpered as he pulled away to grip Peter’s hips and fuck him harder. He could faintly see Chris holding Peter’s face between his hands and kissing him. Peter pushed back against him as Chris kissed him deeper.

“You’re so good,” Chris whispered. “Take Stiles, then you’re going to roll over and let me have you again.”

“Okay,” Peter said.

Then Stiles knew for sure that it wasn’t the alpha that was most active in Peter’s brain. He should’ve known it just by the fact that he was getting to fuck him. But he wasn’t thinking that well. The moon was close, Peter smelled like Chris’s cum, the bed, and like he and Chris had been plastered together all day. They smelled fucking mouthwatering. He thought of how he was going to smell mixed with Chris in Peter’s body and jerked hard.

“That’s good,” Chris said, his hand warm on his hip. “We have to take care of him like this, Pup. It won’t happen all the time.”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles said.

He didn’t know where the sir came from, but it didn’t feel wrong. His wolf was farther back in his head. It liked the way Peter smelled, but it wasn’t crazy about the way he was acting. Stiles was all-fucking-over-it. Knowing his ass had to be sore was a turn on. Knowing that Peter was getting off on a little bit of pain with the pleasure was making him tingle. Knowing that he was fucking Chris’s cum farther up into Peter’s body was winding him to the point of snapping. Eventually that was going to lose its appeal, maybe. He didn’t think it would be any time soon.

“I’m going to take such good care of you when we’re done,” Chris whispered to Peter. “You’re such a good wolf, Buck.”

Peter whined and shivered against him like a cold chill. Whatever headspace they’d been fucking around with was deep. Running his hands over his back, Stiles could almost feel one of Peter’s wolves under his skin. The one that was Chris’s puppy, the one that ran up to Chris outside when they were shifted and licked his face and wagged its tail like nothing in the world could make it happier.

“Chris’s wolf,” he said softly against Peter’s ear.

Peter pushed his hips back against him and felt Chris’s soft growl. 

“But you don’t seem to mind sharing your ass with me,” Stiles said.

“Because he’s good,” Chris said, kissing Peter open mouthed and sloppy. Peter clung to him. “Get off, Stiles. He’s starting to get sore.”

Just as he said it, Peter whined softly and tucked his face against Chris’s neck. Then Stiles heard the wet noise of a hand on a dick. At first he thought Chris was jerking Peter off, then he realized Chris had them both in his hand, stroking them into his fist.

Peter moaned loudly, like it shocked him. “Chris,” he said, jerking and starting to mumble like Chris’s name was the only thing he could say.

Maybe it shouldn’t turn him on, but it did. It was hot to see Peter become a puddle under Chris’s hands. It was hot to see exactly what Chris was capable of reducing someone to. One day, he was going to make sure it was him. He was going to make sure it was both of them doing it to him until he was pulled into too many directions to think, until he was just as thoughtless and pure feeling as Peter was. He was an alpha, but at that moment, he wasn’t. He was vulnerable and sweet.

This was the wolf that thought Chris made the moon rise and set it.

There was one of those in Peter for him too, with red-eyes, and a hungry dominant nature that made Stiles’s wolf stir just at the thought. That made him salivate and his fingers start to tremble.

That’s what kicked him over the edge. He held Peter’s hips tightly and came deep inside of him, making sure every last drop was inside before he pulled out. Then Chris pulled Peter over.

“Suck him off, Stiles,” Chris said, before Peter moaned. “Just one more time, Peter. Can you give me one more?”

Peter nodded, twisting his neck until he could kiss Chris over his shoulder. Stiles watched them for a moment before he leaned down and took Peter’s dick in his mouth. He could taste Chris’s saliva, Peter’s pre-cum, and Chris’s. He groaned as he deep-throated him. Someone was pressing his head forward. It had to be Chris.

“Fuck his throat,” he heard Chris say. When Peter started rocking his hips, Stiles breathed through his nose. “Good, pup,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “He’s been so good for us.”

Stiles groaned and Peter spasmed at the vibration. He heard Chris groan and felt him fucking Peter harder for a few moments right before Peter moaned and his cum gushed on his tongue.

“Don’t swallow,” Chris said, winding his fingers in his hair then pulling him up. He pulled Stiles over Peter until he sealed their lips together. Stiles opened his mouth and felt Chris licking into Peter’s cum. He felt his own cock drool when Chris growled and he felt it in his own body. Chris left him with some of Peter’s come as he pulled away. Then he started to kiss Peter again. He heard Peter gasp, then he smelled tears.

“Shhh,” Chris whispered against his lips. Then Stiles realized he had at least one finger in Peter’s ass, probably one, but maybe two. “You’re so beautiful like this, Peter.”

“I can’t take any more,” he said.

“We’re not doing any more,” Chris said softly.

Even when Peter couldn't go anymore, even when he didn’t need it, he whined. Stiles laughed slightly.

“It's not like it’s the last time you’ll be able to talk us in doing this,” Stiles said.

“It’s been a long time since he’s done it,” Peter said, rolling over and putting his arms around Chris’s neck.

“Because your bossy fucking alpha doesn’t like to share,” Chris said with a low growl. “Then you wonder why I don’t like it.”

“Don’t be mean,” Peter said. 

“I’m not being mean,” Chris said, rubbing down the center of Peter’s back. “I just shouldn’t have to get bitten twice to fuck you.”

“I know,” Peter said. “I’ll try-.”

“It isn’t you that needs to try,” Chris said. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve been so good,” He said before he reached over and lightly dragged his nails down Stiles’s belly. “Can you get me a warm rag?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, getting out of bed and going into the bathroom.

He could hear Peter and Chris whispering things to each other, but he knew it wasn’t anything really secretive. It wasn’t about him or anything, they were just so wrapped in each other. It didn’t hurt him like it maybe should have. When things calmed down, he was going to get to let Peter’s alpha get ahold of him like that and he was going to soak up every single moment of it. His wolf perked again, supplying all the mental images of him face down and ass up while Peter fucked him, as a human, as a wolf. The second image sent the sharpest jolt down his spine. The huge black wolf that was Peter’s on top of his human skin, his thick fur rubbing against his back as he fucked him fast and hard.

He cleaned his dick with the warm rag before rinsing it, ringing it out, and taking it back to the bedroom. One of their lamps was on now. Chris had Peter with his ass in the air and his chest on the bed. He was gently touching Peter’s slightly gaped hole. When Stiles handed him the rag, he dragged it over his hole, making Peter whine. It still didn’t sound human at all. Stiles saw cum leak out of him and watched Chris wipe it away until it the trickle stopped. Then Chris kissed Peter’s puffy red opening. He licked him once, then twice before Stiles nudged him with his shoulder.

“I want to.”

For the first time, Chris’s eyes flashed at him. His natural eyes were so light that as a wolf, they were yellow. He licked Peter’s hole one more time, closing his eyes and licking him slowly and deeply before pulling back and touching Stiles’s shoulder, giving him permission to move. Stiles was never big on rimming, but he didn’t have to be. His wolf came forward hard. He almost felt hungry. He tasted Chris’s cum and his own mixed with Peter’s body. When he felt Chris’s hand on his head, he tensed, ready to be pushed away, but Chris just ran his fingers through his hair.

“You’re such a pup,” he said softly. There was a small growl to his voice. It made Stiles’s wolf tingle. If he had a tail, it would be wagging. “Good boy, lick it all up.”

Even he could feel the dominance crawling over his skin, the tension. His wolf was a submissive shit. It didn’t really surprise him. He tended to be more submissive during sex, but a quiet thought in the back of his head said Chris wasn’t going to be. It would be easier to get a feral wolf to show its stomach that it was going to be to get Chris to.

Finally, he pulled away when Chris tugged his hair. Chris kissed him before he wiped Peter with the rag again. Then he helped Peter roll onto his side and laid down to take Peter in his arms. Peter melted against him, his eyes already closed and breathing deeply.

Stiles laid down behind Peter and heard his soft little whine as he pressed his body heat against him. Chris kissed Peter’s temple and brushed back his hair.

“So how was that?” Stiles asked quietly.

Chris opened his eyes. There was just the faintest hint of gold at the centers. 

“I didn’t realize how much I missed him,” Chris said. “Then with my-. With my wolf, getting to touch his, it didn’t feel real,” he said quietly. “They were both so happy. I don’t think I’ve ever been that happy.”

Stiles smiled faintly. “Worth getting bitten?”

Chris looked down where Stiles’s eyes had trailed to the fresh bite wounds on his neck and shoulder. “His alpha can bite me every time.”

Stiles smiled slightly bigger. “You talk so much shit.”

“He needs to learn to share,” Chris said again before he dragged his lips over Peter’s hair and inhaled deeply.“I can feel what a nightmare this is going to be. I know it’s going to get into fights with Peter’s alpha. I know it will. I know I’m going to have problems controlling my emotions, I can already _feel_ that, but for right now? I just feel okay. I just laid in bed with my husband for most of the day, and I just-.”

His eyes started to water and Stiles hugged him over Peter’s side.

“Two months ago I was so close to killing myself and now I’m excited about things and I haven’t felt that way in so long,” he said.

Stiles leaned over Peter, who was dead to the world and kissed his cheek. “God that makes me so happy. You deserve it.”

Chris squeezed the back of his neck. “I don’t know how hard this is going to be,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how bad this wolf is going to be, but I know it’s going to be difficult. I know it’s going to be temperamental. It’s probably going to be aggressive. I want you to know that anything I do in that form has nothing to do with how _I_ feel about you. I love you, Stiles. Please, don’t let anything that happens with this make you question that. I love you and I’m so grateful for you.”

Stiles felt his cheeks burn, but he nodded. “I love you too.”

“I don’t know how I got both of you. Doesn’t seem right.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Chris snorted before he leaned forward and kissed Stiles again before kissing Peter and squeezing him. Then he just hugged him, with his cheek against his temple and his eyes closed. Stiles’s wolf winced at something like longing. It was something bittersweet and strong.

Stiles rolled over and turned off the lamp. When he spooned back against Peter, he felt Chris’s warm hand settle on his hip. He fell asleep listening to both of their hearts beating and realizing that at this time in only a handful of days, he would be seeing one of his mates for the very first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of Chris, Peter, and Stiles on the full moon. It's almost done, guys. You fuckers that have stuck with it? Jesus you've got some staying power and don't think I don't appreciate every second you spend reading this story. <3


	22. Chapter 22

Six months ago, Stiles was never aware of the cycle of the moon. Now, the new update in his brain was hyper-aware. It was going to be nearly full tonight. He scratched at the inside of his elbow. It felt like the blood underneath it was infected. 

Beside him, Parrish sucked at the last of his coke, making the ice rattle. It echoed in Stiles’s ear canals. He stared at him, but Parrish was looking at the dark parking lot of the gas station where a robbery had been committed a few nights before. Stiles was about to tell him to cut the shit when Parrish finally put the cup down. 

“Are you working tomorrow?” Parrish asked. 

“No. Are you?”    


“Yeah.” 

“With Derek?” 

“Probably. That’s who I seem to get stuck with when you aren’t here,” he said, staring out of the windshield with a crease between his eyes. 

“I thought you liked Derek?” 

“He’s fine.”

Stiles’s eyesight went hyper-clear and he looked away, so Parrish wouldn’t see, although he doubted he would in the dark cabin anyway. His interloper was a gossip whore apparently. 

When the silence dragged, he glanced at Parrish again once his eyes stopped throbbing. He tried to picture him making out with Derek. The image didn’t come easily. 

Parrish was just so, Jordan. A dude he’d seen pick up women at the bar with his cute smile and dimpled face. Chicks fell at a his feet when he turned on the charm. He was sure women would do that with Derek too, but he couldn’t see Dererk doing it. Then again, he could barely see Derek participating in any normal human activity. The fact that he was a werewolf made so many things that Stiles had found strange about him make sense. 

The radio crackled faintly between them for awhile. It was quiet this late at night in a town as small as Beacon Hills. When Stiles’s phone vibrated, he pulled it out of his pocket. There was a text from Peter asking how shift was going. His eyesight throbbed against. He closed his eyes and rubbed them at the sudden headrush. 

“When did you know you were gay?” 

“What?” Stiles asked, hearing him, but his head still throbbing. 

“What I asked?” 

Stiles glanced up, blurry-eyed, but Parrish was staring through the windshield. The itching beneath his skin was driving him fucking crazy. His wolf didn’t just want out, it was dying for it. He clawed at his arm, leaving hot marks. 

“I’m not gay. I’ve fucked women and liked it. Just turns out I’m fucking dudes at the moment.”

“But when did you know you liked men too?” 

“I don’t know? Always?”  

“But how did you know it wasn’t just hero worship?” 

“I don’t even know what that means.” 

“Okay, Deadpool. Ryan Reynolds is a good-looking man. I know that, I’m not blind. I see why so many people would fuck him.” 

“Yeah? Well would you fuck him?” 

Parrish stared out of the windshield with such a serious expression that Stiles almost laughed. 

“Maybe.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Then maybe you’re a little bi. It’s all a scale, dude. Just because you’d fuck some guys doesn’t mean you’re 100% gay. You could just be into certain people. There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

Parrish stared at him with a level of bitch face that could make him believe he and Derek were destined to be together. Or like it was his fault that he wanted to fuck Derek.  

“You don’t have to be gay, bi, straight. Just fuck who you want to fuck. There’s really no reason to put a label on your overall sexuality unless you want to. Even with dating Chris and Peter I wouldn’t really want to call myself gay. If I stopped seeing them I could find a chick I was into just a much.” 

Parrish looked away, exhaling heavily through his nose, glancing at the clock on the dash. “I’m pretty sure most people aren’t like you.” 

“I think more are than admit it. Some men are hot. Some women are. Getting fucked in the ass feels really good. Fucking women feels good too.” 

“It’s not just about the sex though.” 

“No, I mean, if you think you might be gay then you have to consider if you’d like cuddling with a guy or kissing him. It’s different than with a woman, but it feels just as good, just in a different way.” 

“Yeah,” Parrish said. 

“What brought this on?” Stiles asked. 

“Nothing. I just watched a documentary last night.” 

“On?” 

“Just people,” Parrish said. Then he looked at the clock for the second time in two minutes. “It’s close enough to shift change. Do you mind heading in?” 

Stiles shook his head and Parrish put the cruiser into gear before pulling out of the cracked lot of Save and Sip and turning toward the station. As they turned onto the road, Stiles could barely see the edge of the moon coming over the top of the trees. Stiles focused on the way his breath moved in out of his own body as he felt his blood thruming in his veins. 

  
  
  


 

When he got off work, Stiles drove straight to Chris and Peter’s. As he pulled his Jeep into the his spot beside where Peter’s Mercedes should be, he felt like his lung were starting to function right again. When he stepped out of the Jeep and took in the strong scent of pine, nearly enough to make his head spin. 

His vision was pulsing as he walked up the pathway to the house, but he could feel the railing of the steps under his hand, smell the wood of their porch as he reached the door and bypassed knocking. 

As he walked out of the front doors of Peter and Chris’s house, his eyesight blacked out for a moment and he gasped, like he’d been completely deprived of oxygen. The scent of Chris and Peter was embedded in the air, in every part of the house. In the living room, the TV was on the pause screen of the game, casting a glow on the remnants of a bleeding steak on the coffee table. The throw pillows were on the ground and blankets were half off the couch. 

Stiles shrugged off his coat and laid it on the couch as he followed the muffled sound of bare feet in the kitchen. 

Chris was standing behind the island with only the light on above the stove. When he looked up, his eyes went from barely visible in the low light to glowing a pale shade that he couldn’t make out with the yellow glare of the halogens behind him. 

“Hey,” Chris said. It sounded like he had strep. 

“Hey,” he said. “What’re you doing?” 

“I don’t know.” 

There was a half cut onion, a browning apple, and a piece of what looked like pork on the thick wooden cutting board Chris normally used. Chris laid the knife down and stepped back from it, rubbing his eyes. Stiles went around the island and his eyesight blinked until he felt himself against Chris’s back, his nose buried against the side of his throat. 

He felt Chris’s skin vibrate then he was being shoved against the tall cabinets beside them. A sharp jolt of pain went up his back as he hit one of the handles, but he hardly felt it at all as he grabbed Chris’s arms and Chris shoved his face against his neck, inhaling loudly before he dragged his hot wet tongue up his throat. 

Stiles’s thoughts hadn’t been sharp all day, but with Chris against every inch of him, acting like he hadn’t touched someone in months, his clarity was soup. A low thought broke through that, that Peter wouldn’t like what Chris was doing, mouthing the side of his throat, hard enough that it felt like if he could eat him alive he would. 

“Call Peter,” Chris said. 

“Where is he?” Stiles asked, as Chris started to suck his neck again. 

“Talia’s,” Chris said, kissing across Stiles’s windpipe. “It likes you. Call him,” he said between mauling the side of Stiles’s neck. 

Stiles threaded his fingers through Chris’s hair that was just grown out enough to pull. A low growl filled the air between them as Chris pulled back enough to look him in the eyes. His irises were almost white, outlined in black. 

“Thank I’m scared of you?” Stiles asked. “Big bad fucking wolf?” 

Chris licked his swollen mouth and Stiles could feel his own heart pounding. He could hear Chris’s. His interloper has fallen back. It felt like standing in the woods before a storm when the birds were silent and the trees were just starting to sway with wind still to high up to feel. 

Stiles grabbed the back of Chris’s neck and kissed him hard. Chris clutched him close, a growl in his throat that Stiles could feel against his tongue. He winced at the handles of the cabinet digging into his back as Chris dragged him to the floor. 

Tile was cold against his back where his shirt had ridden up, it was hard against his ass and spine as Chris shoved his hips down against him. 

Stiles moaned into Chris’s mouth as Chris reached between them, yanking at Stiles’s belt. Then Stiles’s felt the weight of his pistol being taken out of the holster. Chris leaned up enough to eject the clip. It felt to the floor before he pulled the slide and the round in the chamber clattered on the floor. 

“Such a fucking boy scout,” Stiles said as he leaned up to drag Chris back down. He heard Chris slide the gun across the floor as he followed him back down. 

“Boy scouts don’t know what I do,” Chris said, grinding down against him again. “I can tie knots with the best of them, though,” he said before he bit Stiles’s earlobe. 

Stiles arched groaning with a small laugh. “I’d like to see that.” 

Chris growled again, burying his face against Stiles’s skin. Stiles run his hands under the bottom of Chris’s shirt until Chris pulled away enough to pull it over his head. As soon as it was off, he was back at Stiles’s neck, sucking on the spots that were already sore. Stiles dug his short human nails into Chris’s back. 

“Peter isn’t going to like that.” 

Chris just moved higher and sucked harder. 

Stiles reached down and finished unbuttoning and unzipping his own pants, then rubbing the front of Chris’s. Chris ground against his hand with a low groan. Then his hands moved to Stiles’s shirt. He was clearly about to rip it open when Stiles locked his leg around one of Chris’s and flipped them. Chris hit the tile hard, his wolf teeth barely flashing. Stiles sat back on his hips grinding against his hard-on as he unbuttoned his own shirt. 

“I only have three work shirts, asshole,” he said. 

Chris growled even as he started to rub every inch of skin Stiles uncovered. Stiles pulled off his overshirt then pulled his t-shirt over his head. As soon as it was off, Chris jerked his hips, catching him behind the leg and grabbing one of his arms in a tight move that sparked the thought of Chris shoving him into the mats in the basement of the police station. Now, though, he could feel Chris’s dick against his ass as his face was pressed to the floor. 

He closed his eyes as Chris held one of his arms behind his back, pressing up just enough to feel an ache. He heard the rustle of Chris’s jeans as he slid the denim down his thighs, then his only pants were being pulled at and he felt the cold air of the kitchen on his ass and legs. Chris repositioned his hand on Stiles’s arm before he felt his breath against his hole right before his warm tongue dragged over it. 

The kitchen swam for a moment, the tiles at his eye-level going from darker to hyper-clarity before they were his normal human muddiness. He pushed back against Chris’s tongue, then gasped as Chris pushed a finger inside of him. 

“I don’t like being stretched,” Stiles said. “Just make sure you’re wet.” 

Chris’s pulled back and Stiles’s heard him spit before he felt the warm wide tip of Chris’s dick pressing against him, he rocked back, little by little taking the head of Chris’s cock. He felt Chris touching the rim of his asshole as it stretched and groaned, squeezing his eyes closed, and biting his lower lip to keep from babbling. He kept expecting the interloper to come forward, but he could barely feel it as Chris consumed every one of his senses. 

When the tip finally slid inside, Stiles bit his lip harder, rocking back to take all of Chris until fucking himself in long slow thrust before Chris grabbed his hips and started to push forward. Stiles lifted up on his elbows as Chris started to fuck him, first slow and deep before the pace quickened and he could hear the smack of Chris’s balls against his thighs. 

He was never good at being quietly fucked. Especially when it was from behind. It was like his prostate was directly connected to his vocal cords. As soon as Chris found that spot, he kept hitting it. Stiles buried his face in his hands as he groaned and whimpered repeatedly, his dick slapping against his stomach as Chris fucked him, leaving sticky globs of pre-cum on his belly and thighs. 

Then Chris pulled him up on his hands and leaned down to wrap his arms around Stiles’s waist. Stiles almost screamed as the new angle pushed Chris deeper, but Chris’s movements only got faster. Stiles arched his ass as much as he could to the curve of Chris’s hips trying to get him deeper, to that place that hurt, but in a way he thought he liked. 

“Don’t stop,” he said, not like it felt like Chris had any intention of it, but his brain felt like it was short-circuiting. “Harder, fuck, Chris, please.” 

Chris was fucking him hard enough to jar his teeth, so he clenched his jaw and focused on how it felt to have Chris, or the thing that was growing inside of Chris inside of him. It was probably only fucking him, because Peter wasn’t here, but for a few minutes he didn’t care. It was buried inside of him and holding him as close as he could while they fucked. Stiles could hear their lungs moving, the slick sound of Chris moving in and out of him, the beat of each other’s hearts. 

Then Chris wrapped one of his rough hands around Stiles’s pre-cum covered dick and jerked a few rough times. Stiles moaned as his body clenched around Chris’s cock, driving him over the edge. 

“Come in me. Don’t pull out,” he said. 

Chris put his mouth on Stiles’s shoulder, his teeth digging into the meat there before he fucked him so hard Stiles almost told him to stop right before Chris shuddered, rocking deep inside of him. Stiles’s arms and legs were shaking as Chris moved them onto their sides. Stiles rolled over on the tile until they were face to face. Chris was licking Stiles’s cum off his fingers. Stiles leaned forward to kiss him, tasting himself on Chris’s fingers and mouth as Chris dragged him closer, smearing his own cum over his skin like he was fingerpainting. 

They kissed slower, but Chris was still exploring his mouth, rubbing his hands over his back and shoulders like he wanted to touch every inch of him. Stiles kissed him back touching Chris’s chest and sides. This close to the full moon, even with the wolf fallen back in his brain, he could smell Chris’s skin, taste something different in his mouth, hear his body working. 

When his lips were raw from stubble and Chris’s teeth, he finally pulled away, barely feeling the cold stone under him with Chris warm against his front. Chris stared at him with light, glowing eyes before they faded until he could barely see a glow and a smile spread over Chris’s mouth. 

“Is it still bestiality if a wolf wants people?” Chris asked.

Stiles laughed slightly, then laughed louder as Chris licked a line of their cum from his sore neck. 

“It likes you so much,” Chris said, his hot breath against Stiles’s ear before kissing his cheek. “I was waiting all day for something. I thought it was the moon.” 

“It probably was.” 

  
Chris growled quietly, dragging his lips against Stiles’s cheek lightly as he shook its head. “No it’s not.” 

Then they heard the door beside them rattle to the garage. They both looked up as Peter came in. He looked confused for a second before one side of his mouth lifted. 

“Forgive me for intruding. To be fair, you did decide to fuck on the floor,” he said. 

Chris buried his face against Stiles’s neck inhaling deeply again before he finally pulled away. Stiles sat up and looked around for his underwear only to see Peter picking his pistol up off the floor. 

“So unprofessional,” he said. 

“It’s unloaded,” he and Chris said at the same time. 

“Look at my responsible boys,” Peter said, still smiling as he sat the gun on the counter. “You two can put on underwear, there’s no point in anything else. It’s time to go outside.” 

Stiles looked at Chris as they both pulled on their underwear. Chris looked back at him, his eyes the white, glowing color again before he pulled Stiles into another deep kiss. Then he stood up and pulled Stiles to his feet. Then Peter grabbed Chris’s hand and pulled him close. Chris took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them, they were blue again. He pressed close to Peter and kissed him as deeply as he had Stiles. Peter kissed him back, his hands running over the claw marks Stiles hadn’t realized he’d left on Chris’s back. 

When they finished, Peter cupped Chris’s face. 

“Are you ready?” 

“I don’t have a choice,” Chris said, but the corner of his mouth was turned up. 

Peter touched the corner of his mouth before giving him a light kiss again. “Let’s go.” 

“Are you shifting tonight?” Stiles asked, pulling up his underwear. 

“I don’t know,” Peter said, holding out his hand for him to take. 

Stiles went closer until he was pressed against Peter’s front beside Chris. His eyesight pulsed and he buried his face against Peter’s neck. Peter kissed the side of his face. 

“Okay. Let’s go,” Peter said. 

Stiles looked at Chris, pressed against him. “Are you going to eat me?” 

“Probably not.” 

“That’s so comforting,” Stiles said. 

Chris kissed his cheek then bit his ear. Stiles yelped and jerked toward him as Chris moved away. Peter grabbed Stiles around his middle. 

“Well this is going to be a lovely night,” Peter said as Stiles felt his own quiet growl tickling his throat and Chris laughed where he was going toward the back door. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  


Peter could see his breath against the glow of the pool lights as he stepped outside, following Chris and Stiles. Stiles shivered in the cold, his entire body shaking before there was a small growl. 

“You shift first, Stiles,” Peter said. 

“I want to see Chris,” Stiles said, rubbing his own arms. 

“Sorry, little love, you’re the baby, you shift first,” Peter said, kissing his cheek. 

“Chris’s wolf is younger than mine.” 

“Stiles, does anything about Chris look younger than you?” 

Stiles looked at Chris, frowning with a deep crease between his eyes. “That’s bullshit.” 

Peter went closer to him and took his face in his hands, making Stiles look at him. 

“It will help him if there’s already a shifted wolf, especially a kind-hearted one,” Peter said. “You are my good, sweet, little love.” 

Stiles’s eyes turned amber and the tension in his shoulders eased. Peter knew he was looking at him with red eyes. He stroked his thumbs over Stiles’s face before kissing him softly. 

When Stiles pulled away, his eyes faded as he looked away to Chris. “Just so you know, the fact that my wolf  _ is  _ older than yours and I’m still the young one is bullshit.” 

“I know. You can bite me if you want,” Chris said. 

“Then you would fucking eat me,” Stiles said, pushing out of his underwear. “Someone makeout with me. My dick is getting frostbite.” 

Peter pulled him close again and started kissing his still red lips from his and Chris’s fuck on the floor. He could still taste the barest residual of cum on his tongue. Then he felt Chris’s hands passing over his on Stiles’s sides. He smelled the heat of his skin mixing with Stiles’s as he started to kiss his bruised and discolored throat. 

“How the fuck are you hard again?” Stiles mumbled against Peter’s lips. 

There was a low growl that made the hair on the back of Peter’s neck raise even as he felt Stiles’s hips push back against Chris’s hips. 

“Stiles, focus,” Peter said against his mouth. 

“Can’t help it your husband wants to fuck me again.” 

“Do you want to freeze?” Peter asked. 

Stiles grunted against Peter, kissing him deeper and pushing against him. Peter pulled him closer, letting his fingertips tingle until he could trail sharp nails over Stiles’s skin. Stiles gasped against his mouth and bit his lower lip before Peter pulled away. 

“Come on, little love,” Peter said quietly. 

“Shit this is going to hurt,” Stiles said, his voice distorting. 

“No it won’t,” Chris said before Peter could. Peter looked down at Chris’s hand resting on Stiles’s hip. Gray lines were already tracking up his arms, growing deeper as Stiles started to shake. 

Peter started to siphon pain from Stiles, feeling the phantom ache in his joints and a deep throbbing in his head. It didn’t hurt as much as he was used to though. Chris was digging at his fair share until they were on the ground with Stiles, thick white fur where pale mole flecked skin had been. 

Stiles got up immediately, licking Peter’s face with high-pitched excited whimpers. Peter petted his soft fur, scratching behind his ears and kissing his snout before Stiles went to Chris, wiggling around him. Chris dragged his hands over sides with his eyes nearly as pale as Stiles’s fur. 

“It’s your turn,” Peter said, sitting cross-legged on the patio across from Chris. 

Chris looked at him, his eyes going from white to slightly dimmer as the blue leaked through. Peter reached forward and took his calloused hand. 

“Your eyes have barely changed. Just give in.” 

“What if it hurts him?” Chris asked. 

“Do you feel like you’ll hurt him?” Peter asked. 

Chris looked at Stiles and Stiles licked his face repeatedly until Chris huffed a laugh and pushed him away. 

“No.” 

“He’s good for this. He’s not going to challenge anything you do,” Peter said, touching Chris’s face until they were looking at each other again. “I’m not shifting tonight. I’ll be here to make sure you’re both safe.” 

“That’s not good for you.” 

“It’ll be fine for one moon,” Peter said. 

Chris looked away, inhaling deeply. Peter felt a small tugging of pain in his palms and opened his pathways more fully to take in Chris’s pain. 

“I can handle it,” Chris said, starting to pull away. 

“Stop,” Peter said, keep his hand as the pain grew.

It ached, but his wolves nearly revelled in it, like they were being allowed to change. He kept them back as his heart started to beat harder. Chris bones started to rearrange beneath his skin. It almost made him sick, but he couldn’t look away as fur began to break over his skin. Peter released his hand as it started to morph and laid his hand on his side, continuing to siphon as Chris convulsed. Dark fur continued to spread until Peter thought they could possibly be the same color. It only took another second to see how wrong he was. 

“I should’ve known that you weren’t the only Argent to fall in with a wolf,” Peter said quietly. 

The Hales were of the McKenzie Wolf line, a variation of tones and colors, but none had the dark markings on their forelegs or the deep red and rich browns that mixed with Chris’s coat. None of them had the eyes that were so pale they were white in the moonlight. 

He helped Chris to his feet. He trembled slightly, but shook. He was the same size as Peter if not larger. Stiles was smaller, lankier. Against his white fur, Chris’s coat looked richer, darker like red clay against a snow bank. 

“You are absolutely beautiful and entirely unexpected,” Peter said quietly, holding out his hand, his fingers tingling to touch. 

Chris’s lip hardly twitched before he pulled away. 

Peter snorted, “And you’re a demon.” 

The first night Stiles was a wolf, he had been accosted by its affection. If it could’ve crawled down his throat and lived inside of him it would have happily done it. Even with putting more space between them, Chris stared at him with his head low. 

Then Stiles went closer to him, his thin, young body curling with submission. His tongue flicked out at Chris’s neck and chin. Chris twitched up his chin, breaking eye contact with Peter to look at Stiles. His lip barely lifted again, but Stiles didn’t stop. 

A low growl filled the air. Chris’s body was rigid, but Stiles was a worm, bending his body in ways that implied he didn’t have a spine. Peter started to open his mouth to call Stiles back before he was bitten when Chris jerked, his ears flicking and his legs ramrod straight. 

Stiles jerked at the same time, his tail wagging before he hit the ground on his front legs and gave his bastardized mix of a bark and howl. Chris took a step back before jolting forward, making Stiles start running in a wide circle like his body had too much energy to contain. 

For a few moments, Chris only watched Stiles, his head low, his ears erect, his light eyes glued to every movement. He was hunting Stiles, it was written in every line of his body. The hair on the back of Peter’s neck rose. He’d needed to be taught that on some level when he was a pup. A large part was instinctual, but not the intensity.  

Then Stiles did slip on the dew-wet grass and Chris was on him in a second. Peter started forward just as Chris knocked Stiles on his side, a loud snarl, but his tail wagged. His lips were peeled back from white teeth. Stiles’s wiggled beneath him, licking his muzzle and teeth with complete trust for this new, exotic species of wolf. 

When Chris let him, Stiles slid out from beneath him and started running again. Peter watched Chris fixate on Stiles’s movements with an intensity that had every instinct in his head saying it was wrong. He would cut Stiles off in half-hearted way to make Stiles turn and run the opposite direction, only to cut Stiles off again in short bursts, almost like herding. He exerted so little energy, darting in a tight close range and directing Stiles into large looping circles. 

It was classic. 

It was the way a few wolves, or one wolf, wore down prey. Entrapment. Slowly carving away at the excess energy of the animal until it faltered. 

Peter watched them from where he sat on one of the patio chairs, the full moon pulling at his second skins. One wanted nothing more than to be with Stiles, acting a fool, getting close to Chris and letting him scent him and doing the same in return, but the other quarter was strong in the night. It wanted out and for no other reason than to push. To test where this new wolf fit into their pack. To establish that its place was beneath him. Every line of Chris’s body said that was going to be a fight, one he had no desire for tonight. 

Instead he watched them play in their odd way for until Stiles was panting and coming up to Chris to compulsively lick his face. Chris shook him off then started to walk around the edge of the yard with his nose to the ground. Stiles stuck to his side like glue for the first two passes, trying to be as interested in odd spots that Chris paused at, sniffing intently. A few times he looked back at Peter like he was confused. 

When Chris started his third inspection of the yard, Stiles ran back to Peter, rubbing his face against his leg when he sat on the patio chair with a low whine. 

“I can’t, little one,” Peter said, scratching into his soft white fur. 

Stiles crawled up on the chair with him, contorting his huge body until Peter could mostly hold him in his lap as he made the chair recline. Stiles stared at him with large amber eyes and made a low whine again, like a balloon with a helium leak. 

“Poor, little love,” Peter said, petting between his eyes. “He won’t always be boring. He’s just scouting.” 

Then that could be a lie. Chris was paranoid as a human and apparently as wolf he was no better.  Peter watched him over Stiles’s head as Stiles started to close his eyes and enjoy being pampered like the puppy he was. 

Chris hardly paid any attention to them. He was focused on the territory. Occasionally he would stop and put his feet on the stone walls of yard and sniff for moments at a time. When the moon was overhead, quiet faint howls began across the reserve as his sister’s pack began. 

Chris paused in the middle of the yard when he was digging at a spot like it could possibly house a snake despite the twenty degree weather. Then he did look back at Peter, his ears erect and his hackles rising slightly as he came back toward them. 

He stared at Peter again before looking back toward the sound. 

“It’s okay. They’re family,” Peter said, still petting Stiles, who stirred then. 

As soon as Stiles heard the howling, his paw hit Peter’s stomach and groin as he jumped down in his excitement. He wagged his tail and went up to Chris, sniffing his muzzle, then looking toward where the Hales were howling. 

Peter leaned forward and cupped his hands around his mouth. He pulled up the wolves inside of him and howled, feeling it twist his vocal cords in a way that wasn’t human. The noise was deeper, carried farther. When he started his second howl, Stiles started to howl, his beautiful neck elongated like he was a dignified creature and not a clown. 

Then Chris started, his howl sounding rusty for a moment until he started again. Peter stopped to watch them. At Chris’s howl, his sister’s pack grew louder, more excited. 

Peter remembered sitting on the rock outcropping on his parents’ property when he was seventeen, teaching Chris how to howl. He remembered how much it has scared and amazed him how well Chris had been trained by his father to imitate their sounds. He had sat beside his mate for the first time and felt the first stirring of fear for the man he was and the training he had had. Then the overwhelming gratitude that of all the people in the world, that Chris was his. He remembered Chris’s embarrassed young smile as Peter stared at him in wonder. 

Now over twenty years later, he stood in front of Peter, calling to his family, their family. Peter watched them until they all seemed to tire, even Talia’s pack quieting across the reserve. When it was silent, Chris looked at him, his eyes dark enough to show the blue before Stiles bit him on the foreleg and they snapped to white as they both took off across the backyard again. 

 

 

 

After Chris and Stiles’s second round of fucking around all over the back yard, Stiles came back to the chairs, crawling into the one right beside Peter, so he could stretch out and lay his head by Peter’s thigh. Peter scratched into his soft white fur as Stiles panted. 

Chris sniffed around the backyard, casting looks toward them occasionally. 

Peter was leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes and petting Stiles when he heard Chris’s toenails click on the patio pavers. Peter looked up and Chris stared at him a few feet away. Peter looked at him for a few more moments, making sure Stiles was asleep before he held out his hand. 

“Come here, Chris,” Peter said quietly. 

Chris only continued to stare. 

Peter slipped off the chair kneeling on the cold stones. The wolf that now owned half of his husband’s mind stared at him without flinching. 

Its dark features were harder to read than his own packmates, those he had and those he’d grown up with. They were almost all shades of gray making their expressions clear. Chris’s dark face threw all of that out of the window. Only the twitch of his ears, listening to things beyond the walls of their backyard, gave any indication of what was happening in his mind. 

“Come here, my love,” Peter said softly, letting every soft feeling he had for Chris come forward, suffocating his alpha beneath it for a few moments. 

His eyesight was sharp, but he knew it was Buck’s sight looking out. Chris’s nose twitched in the moonlight before he took a few small steps forward, smelling Peter’s fingers. His ears stayed entirely erect, but he moved his cheek against Peter’s hand. Peter slowly lifted his other hand so he could cradle the wolf’s massive head between his palms, gently petting the soft dense fur of Chris’s face. 

“You’re beautiful,” Peter whispered. 

The wolf’s ears barely twitched. Its tail giving one sway in the quiet of the night. Then Chris stepped closer and Peter held still as he came into his space, sniffing his shoulders, then up against his neck. His tongue was soft and warm for a split second before he whined softly. 

Buck made an answering noise using his vocal cords before he could stop himself. He rubbed his cheek against Chris’s large soft one, Buck pressing against every inch of his skin, feeling his wolf and wanting more so badly he could feel his consciousness dimming. Peter breathed in the heat of Chris’s scent with all the power of Buck’s senses. 

“You can trust me,” Peter said against his fur. 

The wolf stayed against him for a moment, not nearly long enough, before it pulled away. It looked at him, then Stiles before it walked into the yard, then around the perimeter of the fence again. Peter watched him for another hour in the near silence of their yard, with only the pool motor humming and the heater occasionally turning on on the far side of the house. 

He was almost in a trance as he watched the wraith patrolling their backyard. 

  
  


 

When it was a few hours before sunrise, Chris and Stiles were playing again like they had off and on for the last five hours. Peter stood and stretched from his chair. He opened the sliding door and Stiles ran past him into the warm house. Chris was slower to follow, but he did, his nose twitching the entire time. When Peter followed them in, Chris was sniffing around the island with Stiles bumping into him and trying to get him to play. Chris never looked up from the tile. 

Peter went passed them into the living room, Stiles’s paws clicking quickly after him before he mouthed Peter’s hand, tugging. Peter loosely pulled on his lower jaw and Stiles growled. Then Chris was there, pushing his muzzle between them, then staring at Peter until he held up his hands in surrender. Chris huffed and pushed passed them into the living room, sniffing at the thick rug and ottoman. 

Then Stiles started to bite Chris’s legs. Chris took off after him, chasing him around the ottoman, then figure-eights around the couches, their toenails skidding on hardwood then muffled on the rugs. 

Peter rolled his eyes and sat on the couch, turning on the TV. Stiles came to a stop, getting slammed into from behind by Chris. They both hit the ground in a tangle of growling and biting. Peter put the TV on one of the many nature documentaries Chris had always saved for him during full moons. 

He choose one about a wolf pack in the Rocky Mountains. Stiles and Chris didn’t pay it any attention as they mouthed each other on the floor, Chris on top of Stiles, almost hiding his lankier body. The alpha prickled down Peter’s spine, but he ignored it as best he could. 

Then Stiles started to shake. Peter started to move to help him through the shift, but Chris was completely blocking his body from Peter’s tongue as he licked Stiles’s face. It only lasted a few moments, but when Stiles’s stopped shaking, Peter could hear the break in his breathing and smell salt in the air as he cried. 

Chris whined licking the side of his neck and beneath his jaw with his ears angled back. Stiles made a soft pained noise, his fingers still trembling as he reached up to pet Chris’s thick nape. 

“That shit fucking hurts,” Stiles said, looking the wolf in the eyes. 

Chris licked the tears from his cheeks. 

Stiles held him around his middle with one arm and scratched into his thickly furred neck with his other hand. The wolf wagged his tail a few times. 

“You’re really pretty,” Stiles said with his voice rough. 

The wolf wagged his tail again, licking Stiles’s face. Stiles burrowed his face against Chris’s. 

“I’m glad you like me,” Stiles said just loud enough for Peter to hear. “I was scared as fuck you wouldn’t.” 

“Anchor,” Peter said, where he was leaned forward on the couch watching them. 

Stiles looked at him and Peter’s chest tightened until it barely felt like he could breathe. He couldn’t imagine that he and Chris had looked much different the first night that Buck had been allowed to touch Chris. The wolf that had hunted the backyard for hours was now a puppy, laying on top of Stiles, his eyes getting heavier and heavier as his large head laid on Stiles’s chest. 

“Yeah?” Stiles asked, looking down at Chris, dragging his finger up the soft fur between Chris’s closing eyes. 

“He’s your puppy. They always are with the right fit,” Peter said. 

“But you’re his anchor,” Stiles said, looking at Peter even as he continued to pet his face. 

“No, he’s mine and only Buck’s. Your wolf is my alpha’s.” 

“Wow,” Stiles said, looking back at Chris with his own eyes red and tired. “That’s pretty cool,” he said, petting over Chris’s coat of rich reds and deep browns mixed with black. “It’s really sweet.” 

“It is,” Peter said, watching the new part of his husband with the young man they both loved. His chest was still tight, but it was less. The wonder in Stiles’s dark brown eyes and trust for the creature that could kill him on a whim softened his thoughts until they couldn’t barb. “We’re so lucky we have you.” 

“I’m lucky too,” Stiles said, petting and looking at Chris before looking at him. “I’m sorry he didn’t anchor on you.” 

“No you’re not,” Peter said, smiling slightly. 

Stiles laughed slightly, “Okay. You’re right.” 

Peter stretched before laying down on the couch. In front of him, he could hear Chris and Stiles’s heartbeats and their breathing. They were almost in rhythm before Stiles’s increased slightly. 

“Do you guys have sex like this?” 

“Do you want to?” Peter asked, smirking at Stiles’s coloring. “Pervert.” 

“It was just a question.” 

“So was mine,” Peter said. 

“I mean, if he wanted to do it, then I’d be willing to try.” 

“You are so generous,” Peter said. 

“I’ll sick my wolf on you.” 

“You wish,” Peter said, readjusting on the arm of the couch. “And yes we do.” 

“Will he want to?” 

“I would be shocked if he didn’t.” 

Stiles shifted slightly on the rug, the coloring on his cheeks and neck getting brighter. “Cool.” 

Peter laughed, watching the TV. “If you aren’t up for it now then I’d think of your grandmother or something. I can smell you from here.” 

Stiles wormed beneath Chris again. Chris stretched his long legs, the toes of his pads flexing before he curled into the crook of Stiles’s neck. Stiles squeezed him closer, the black pepper scent of arousal quickly dampening under affection and tiredness. 

Soon, Stiles was snoring slightly beneath Chris’s weight. His alpha tracked the movement of caribou on screen. He listened to his small packs’ breathing, took in the smell of them in their home and pushed the alpha to enjoy that sensation as much as possible. 

When the darkness through the heavy drapes finally started to lighten, Peter stood from the couch and touched Stiles’s shoulder. Chris woke up first, his light eyes glowing in the darkness, watching Peter intently. Peter squeezed Stiles’s shoulder. 

“It’s time to go to bed,” he said. 

Stiles opened his eyes with a small jerk. Chris growled quietly, staring at Peter with his ears flicking back. Peter felt this eyes shift, the room went hyper clear. Chris’s growl deepened, his shoulders tensing, his teeth showing. 

“It’s okay,” Stiles said, sleep clogged, his arms wrapping around Chris like he wasn’t one wrong movement away from springing on Peter. Stiles put his hand on Chris’s muzzle, pulling it down so they were looking at each other. “It’s okay, Cujo.” 

The low growl tapered and Peter stood, backing up. Stiles ran his fingers up Chris’s sides, kissing his face. 

“Come on, bedtime,” Stiles said. 

When he started to move, Chris stood up, shaking out his coat. When Stiles stood, he immediately sniffed then licked Stiles’s limp dick. Stiles jerked, covering himself up with a squawk. Chris stared up at him and his tail swayed. 

“You don’t just sneak lick someone’s dick.” 

Chris’s tail swayed again before he followed Stiles toward Peter. Peter went up the stairs, hearing them behind him as they went to the second floor. Peter went down the hall to their bedroom. He started to take off his clothes as Stiles went passed him and crawled on the bed. Chris jumped up after him. Stiles laid on the far side and pulled the blankets over himself. Chris laid down against him. 

When Peter finished undressing, he got on his side of the bed and slowly reached toward Chris. Chris watched his hand, but didn’t growl as he stroked his thick fur. Peter counted slowly in his head to keep himself firmly in control was he felt Chris’s tense muscles beneath his hand. He was like a stray backed into a corner, accepting being touched, but always on the cusp of biting. 

When he was at three-hundred, some of Chris’s tension finally eased. He glanced at Peter before laying his head down on the pillow. Peter ran his hands over Chris’s body longer, long enough that he heard Stiles’s breathing deepen under the exhaustion of a full moon run. Chris’s eyes were trying to drag, but Chris kept forcing them open, glancing at Peter and flicking his ears. 

Finally, Peter scooted closer, inch by inch, until his front was pressed to Chris’s side. 

“It’s okay, love,” Peter whispered, touching the coarse fur of Chris’s face, sliding his fingers into the thick nape and behind his ears, petting him with his thumbs. “Shift, I’m right here.” 

The wolf stared at him with its strange eyes before its body finally started to tremble. Peter pulled it closer, feeling it tremble against his chest as he siphoned the pain off with fingers knotted in the wolf’s coat. 

A low growl started in its chest as the trembling became more violent, then the noise became more human until Chris was in his arms, his naked skin pressed to every inch of Peter’s front. Peter started to kiss his face, running his fingers through his short hair as Chris’s shook and his breathing came out jagged and rough. 

“I have you,” he said quietly against Chris’s ear as he kissed him everywhere his lips touched. 

Chris wrapped his arms around him tightly, breathing into the side of his neck, pushing his knee between Peter’s legs so they were completely intertwined. 

Chris’s breathing came out rougher and rougher until Peter could smell his tears. He tried to kiss them away, but in the end settled with letting Chris hide his face against his neck and shake. 

“I thought it would like you,” Chris finally said when he could catch his breath. 

“It will.” 

“Don’t let me near the alpha, Peter,” he said against Peter’s throat. 

Peter kissed Chris’s brow, holding his head against his neck and squeezing his eyes closed. They would find an order, their home would be peaceful, but with Chris’s skin trembling against his, he couldn’t understand how it would come in the end. 

“It will be okay,” Peter said quietly. “I promise.” 

Chris dug his fingers into Peter’s back and inhaled the scent of his skin. “I love you. I don’t care what it does to you. I love you.” 

“I know you do,” Peter said. Then he pulled away with a faint smile. “I knew he was going to a be a demon. I can handle him, but you have to trust that I can.” 

He could see Chris’s throat move as he swallowed, but he nodded after a moment. “I know you can.” 

Peter leaned forward and kissed him, pulling Chris closer until they were kissing deep and slow. Then he felt movement against Chris’s back and Stiles pressed closer. Peter heard him kissing Chris’s shoulders and chest. Chris pulled away to kiss Stiles. 

“I love you too,” Chris said, looking up at Stiles. 

Stiles smiled, dimples pitting his cheeks deeply. “I know. I’m an anchor.” 

Chris laughed quietly. “That is what you would be proud of.” 

“Fuck yes. I’m an anchor to a really pissy wolf. I’m so proud,” he said, kissing Chris again, deep and filthy enough to make Chris’s eyes flash. 

Peter laughed and put his hand on Chris’s chest. “Stop. Both of you.” 

Stiles nuzzled Chris’s face and Chris closed his eyes, breathing out deeply through his mouth. Stiles rubbed his hands over Chris’s chest and stomach from behind until Chris’s eyes were blue again. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Stiles said. “I mean, if we’re making this work,” he said, gesturing to the three of them, “What’s one bitchy wolf?” 

Peter huffed and kissed Chris’s cheek. “He’s right. One bitchy wolf is completely manageable.” 

He felt Chris’s breathing deepen and his heart rate slowly lowered. He expected Chris to start trying to put some distance between them, but soon he was asleep, tucked against Peter’s throat with Stiles against the curve of his back. 

Peter listened to Stiles fall asleep after Chris. He listened to them sleeping long after daylight had started to try to creep into their bedroom through the dark curtains. He leaned over just enough to kiss Stiles’s softly before he kissed Chris’s temple. Neither of them stirred in their exhaustion. 

Soon he followed them into unconsciousness, aware of the different textures of their skin touching him and falling victim to it, despite the lingering unease tinging his thoughts. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this didn't answer all of the questions that this story has caused, but there will be a sequel. ;) 
> 
> Thank you guys for following this story for so long. It really means so much. <3 
> 
> (for anyone who wants to look it up, Chris is an Iberian wolf)
> 
> Also, I want to thanks [TriscuitsandSoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup) for helping me beta and work through the process of writing many of these chapters, as well as a number of people on [The Steter Network Discord](http://steternetwork.tumblr.com) . I don't think I could've finished this story without out their support.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are the little hugs I love. :)


End file.
